


Unmasked

by rabekka



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Animated Series, Harley Quinn (Comics), Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Arkham Asylum, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood and Violence, Canon Related, Chemical Bath Joker, Developing Relationship, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Girls with Guns, Harley Quinn Backstory, Joker (DCU) Backstory, My First Smut, Non-Abusive Relationship, Non-Canon Relationship, Non-abusive Joker, Past Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel, Revenge Violence, Suicide Squad, non-canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26833036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabekka/pseuds/rabekka
Summary: Harleen Quinzel, a medical doctor studying to become a psychologist, evolves into Harley Quinn after some life-altering events at Arkham Asylum. She eventually crosses paths with Jack, an uninspired hitman, who wants to develop his own persona besides ‘mob lackey’.After fate shoves them together, they find their true selves!
Relationships: Jack Napier/Harley Quinn, Jarley Relationship, Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel, Joker (DCU)/Harley Quinn, Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 57
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EndoratheWitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EndoratheWitch/gifts).



> After binge-reading all of Endora's stories, I got ideas for my own Harley/Joker origins stuck in my head that I couldn't stop thinking about. So with her invaluable encouragement, I started writing it down...
> 
> This is my first fanfic, inspired by all her amazing stories, and I hope everyone enjoys! Likely posting new chapters on Sunday nights, provided work and migraines don't get in the way.
> 
> P.S. Non-abusive Jarley relationship with eventual smut, because smut is required.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Subscribe to my account if you are able, I have 2 mini fics coming out eventually, too! ❤️🖤💚💜

“Did you hear what I said, Harleen?” Ben asked, annoyed by her blank stare of shock.

She did hear him, loud and clear, but she didn’t want to believe it. Her boyfriend got engaged? It was absurd, especially since she just devoted three years of her life with this guy, whom she trusted, and now he was doing the one thing she feared the most from any long-term relationship — he was shamefully breaking her heart.

Her stomach had flipped inside-out about ten times by now, and a million questions were zipping through her brain, overloading her senses, making her feel numb and speechless. Her tongue felt too heavy to question him at the moment and her eyebrows involuntarily furrowed.

She opened her mouth to say something… anything… but Ben interrupted her. “Look, Harleen,” he stated with unjustified irritation, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “I know this is sudden, but I wanted to tell you now before you hear about it from coworkers.”

Harleen scoffed quietly to herself; of course he was acting like he was doing _her_ a favor. Often that was the case with them, making himself look like the considerate one in whatever scenario they were in — like she should be grateful for receiving that modicum of courtesy.

It was 5pm on Friday night and they were standing by their cars in the employee parking lot of Arkham Asylum. Harleen was a General Practitioner M.D., having been at the institute for five years now, after completing her Residency at Gotham General. (Her now-deceased mother, who had been a nurse, inspired her to go to medical school.) The hospital had actually offered her a tenure spot, but the hours were exhausting, and the asylum was more ‘private practice’ — higher pay and a set schedule.

Harleen was ultimately glad she chose to go with Arkham, since a couple years prior she explored pursuing a career in Psychiatry. She was enthralled by the variety of cases that the asylum housed, ranging from textbook conditions like depression, to the rare but extensively studied psychopathology. Each patient was uniquely different — a layered puzzle to dissect and analyze. Being a medical doctor was interesting work, but she started to feel restless, like she needed a new challenge to focus her energy on.

She had enrolled in evening classes this past year and loved every minute of it (even though Ben constantly told her it was a waste of time). Whenever she tried to talk to him about her new knowledge, he brushed her off and said she already had a career, and that psychiatry is useless because the ‘crazies’ couldn’t be fixed. He didn’t seem to mind spending less time with her though, so she could focus on studying… but now it was abundantly clear why.

They both had started at Arkham around the time; the two newbies quickly became friends and enjoyed each other’s company without any relationship pressure. Harleen had split with her previous boyfriend right before being hired, and Ben had just finalized a divorce.

So mutually, neither wanted to jump into a commitment right away, but all their time together eventually led to a relationship.

Ben was always telling Harleen that he loved her, but always seemed to be holding something back (he stated it like an automatic phrase a partner was required to say). She assumed his reticence was just leftover anxiety about his divorce and a general fear of commitment — and if she was being completely honest, she had a bit of that fear as well.

But she didn’t want to bother him about it, or be a ‘pushy’ girlfriend, or scare him off and shut him down more with her perceived neediness. He always complained to her about how his ex-wife was so clingy, and that was incentive enough to prevent her from talking to him about anything regarding her feelings.

This avoidance routine quickly evolved into them working around _his_ needs all the time, and only spending time together when it was his idea, then eventually only doing what he wanted to do. She wasn’t thrilled with that, but again, her complaining would have scared him off, so she didn’t rock the boat — ever.

And now, this self-professed commitaphobe was getting married _again_. Describing this nightmare as a ‘shock to her system’ would be insultingly mild.

“We can talk more about this later, after I get back from vacation,” Ben prompted. As he was getting into his BMW, Harleen finally blurted out one question — “Who is it?”

Ben paused, avoiding eye contact with her, and replied, “Sara.”

Harleen’s brow furrowed even more. “Sara, as in _nurse_ Sara that used to work here?” Her voice cracked just a tad. Ben said a quick ‘yep’, then got into his car and bolted before she could protest.

As he drove off, Harleen stood by her car and wondered what the fuck just happened! Then it dawned on her — he purposefully waited until Friday after work to tell her all of this. Yeah, there was no way they would be talking about it in-depth later; he would dodge that conversation like a pothole.

And if she deigned to bring it up later when he got back from his week off, his response would surely be “it’s in the past, get over it and move on.” She knew his habitual reactions so well that she could have full conversations with him in her head…

Harleen, now beyond stunned, slowly got into her red Prius and turned it on. After a few contemplative moments, she decided to just go home instead of running her usual Friday evening errands. Knowing she wasn’t going to be able to swallow her emotions for much longer, she didn’t want to be in public when that dam broke.

***

When she got back to her condo, she sloughed off her typical Friday work clothes (a black pencil skirt and red blouse with 2-inch black heels) and uncharacteristically left them in a heap on her bedroom floor.

After putting on a comfy red sleep-tank and her favorite diamond-patterned black leggings, she slumped down on the couch but couldn’t bring herself to turn on the TV yet. Instead, she just stared at it blankly, as if it was going to magically give her all the answers she needed.

Her condo was fairly meager for a doctor of her years, since she preferred saving money to spending lavishly. But it was decorated pleasantly in a prepackaged Pottery Barn sort of way, as well as immaculately clean and organized. She had been avoiding buying a house just incase Ben was open to getting a place together, but when she proposed that as an option to him for the future (as delicately as possible), the adverse reaction he had was palpable.

By now, all the questions she should have demanded answers to before Ben drove off started scrolling through her mind — how long have you two been together? Did Sara know we were in a relationship? What changed your mind about getting married again? What was so wrong with Harleen that he didn’t want to marry her??

She wasn’t really the marrying type, though; the repressed contrarian in her thought it was a useless tradition riddled with patriarchy. Ben had even told her early in their friendship that he was never getting married again, so they had that in common. But she _never_ ruled out the possibility of spending the rest of her life with someone…

Now that hopeful prospect was fading fast, and she was drowning in doubt and low self-esteem.

As more questions flitted through her brain, all these ‘red flags’ started to surface — the obvious one being that he was so avoidant this past year, but Harleen had brushed it off, assuming it was because of her classwork.

How could she have been so oblivious to the pile of evidence that showed he didn’t really want to be with her? It’s like she had lost herself completely, just going where he led her like an eager-to-please puppy. The confident woman she used to be was now a blind, hesitant servant constantly sacrificing her comfort and energy. After letting this guy walk all over her for years, he had effectively — and completely — killed her last bit of trust.

Eventually after a thousand other red flags flew through her mind, she was exhausted and drained. The lack of background noise started to suffocate her, so she turned on a ‘true crime’ show and zoned-out.

***

After hours of being curled up on the couch, her eyes glazed over from staring through the TV, she decided to go to bed. She hadn’t eaten anything since lunch, but the thought of food made her nauseous — it felt like there was a bag of rocks in her stomach.

She unrolled her light blond hair from the taut bun it was in, then took a couple of prescription sleeping pills (knowing her mind would be racing all night, preventing rest).

While she lay in bed waiting for the pills to kick in, Harleen contemplated all these societal constructs that she dutifully adhered to her whole life — following the rules and doing what she was _supposed_ to do, for a utopian life with virtuous morals, didn’t seem to be panning out very well…

***

Throughout the weekend, Harleen maintained her dazed state, barely eating and glued to the couch. She thought about calling someone to vent (either the few non-work friends she had or her brother), but she wasn’t in the mood to explain the whole story, or wanting to hear any irritatingly positive clichés: “there’s plenty of fish in the sea, you’ll find someone else, don’t give up on love” — PUKE!

Just thinking about that shit made her angry… plus, complaining wouldn’t fix the situation, and she didn’t want to bother people with her drama right now (or re-live it verbally).

The pills had given her a solid ten hours of drugged rest, but her dreams were horribly vivid and full of anxiety, so she felt like she barely slept. For the first few moments after waking up, she had to process if what happened yesterday was real or not; once her brain caught up to reality, it was like a waking nightmare, lacking the ‘it was just a dream’ alleviation.

After reluctantly getting out of bed and forcing herself to eat some toast, she spent the first half of Saturday on the couch. She still had a million questions, but at this point, they had blurred into one encompassing query — why not her?

Had he been using her this entire time? Why wouldn’t he just be honest and say he’d rather not be in a relationship anymore? Why didn’t he just stop being a coward and break up with her? He was completely willing to marry to his first wife, and now Sara, so that left Harleen stuck in the middle like a distraction… a toy for him to play with when bored, or a snack between meals to instantly forget about.

To reiterate, she didn’t even want to be married. They had had that in common, or so she thought, not having the pressure of marriage being the corresponding next step. Harleen felt that it gave them more stability and less tension overall. So what on earth could have made him propose to Sara? Why could he commit to those two women and not her?

That revelation made her feel unbearably repellant — her supposed best friend didn’t even want to be with her. Consequently, that’s when the crying started… she couldn’t remember the last time she had sobbed so hard. It was irritating that he could elicit such a substantial emotional reaction from her.

*

After her energy was completely drained, Harleen started to feel angry — boiling, molten hot, unabashed anger! She was outraged at herself for not seeing the signs, for blindly trusting him, for crying over him so much when he clearly didn’t give a shit about her.

She also loathed that Sara even existed (though subconsciously she knew it wasn’t Sara’s fault — god-knows what secrets Ben is keeping from her, too).

Harleen desperately needed something to channel all this anger before she had a stroke. She reached for the nearest object on the coffee table: a framed picture of herself and Ben. She glared at her bright, happy smile, then saw that Ben looked numbly indifferent (something she had never noticed before).

She hurled the frame at a wall-mirror in her dining room and it shattered. Stomping over to the fractured glass, Harleen picked up the now loose photo (accidentally cutting her hand) and tore the picture apart into confetti. She made a sound that was a mix between a giggle and a scoff, then tapped a finger onto her bleeding cut and wrote ‘fuck you Ben’ on the wall.

Feeling some catharsis from her new wall art, Harleen smiled for the first time in days. She took a few steps back and contemplated the bloody proclamation — he erased her from his life so easily... and quickly. (How long had they stood in that parking lot? Ten minutes at the most??)

Fuck it — she was going to do the same to him! In a flurry of intense rage, Harleen ran around her condo grabbing everything that Ben had given her or was considered his (which wasn’t much she now realized), and shoved it into a trash bag. After that, she dug out a box of small throwing daggers she had bought herself, solely for the fact that they were beautiful, and started chucking them at the bloody writing on the wall. She was a bit out of practice with her knife-throwing skills, but it felt great to focus her energy on something with distracting concentration.

After an intermission that involved vodka and music (plus tone-deaf singing), she plopped Ben’s crap outside her door to bring out to the dumpster later. She was in no mood to have any neighbors see her in this state — bleeding, face swollen and red from crying, her hair looking like it lost a fight with a pillow… god-help whoever came to her door to complain about trash in the hallway or the music! She was _NOT_ in an accommodating mood.

***

On Sunday afternoon, fatigue had set in, but Harleen surprisingly felt like _some_ weight had lifted off her psyche (or maybe she was just indifferently numb at this point). She made an agreement with herself that she was done crying over that useless asshole — _done_ wasting her energy on him and _done_ letting herself be walked all over like a doormat… by anyone. DONE!

That evening she finally texted her brother, Jon, who preferred going by his middle name: Frost. They were only a year apart in age and pretty close now as adults. He had followed their dad’s career path and became a cop, but later decided to be a P.I. instead (after having gotten burnt out by all the politics and hypocrisy that law enforcement in Gotham entailed).

They kept in touch a lot via texting, but didn’t hang out as much as they wanted to (both their careers and relationships keeping them busy — all the traditional excuses). When they did make a point to meet for a catch-up lunch, it usually included a gun-range visit to keep their skills fresh.

(Both of them learned how to handle and shoot various firearms growing up — an activity that Harleen loved and excelled at. Their father ended up being killed while on duty, responding to a domestic disturbance call that turned out to be a schizophrenic who was ‘off his meds’, according to the official report. About six months after his death, Harleen decided to pursue psychology as a potential new career path.)

Deciding she was too tired to go into detail for a long phone call, she kept the text succinct: “Ben left me. He’s engaged. Too tired to talk. Call you this week.”

He wrote back promptly, per usual: “WTF!!! Call when ready… lemme know if I should dig up dirt.”

Harleen chuckled at the last part — he was always eager to flex his proverbial P.I.-muscles and show off his information-gathering skills. She was glad he finally found a job that made him happy and motivated, just like she used to be as an M.D.

As the evening subsided, Harleen’s anxiety about dealing with her coworkers was growing. She wondered whom Ben had talked to about Sara and how long they knew about the situation. Ultimately she decided to show up tomorrow morning with her head held high to show everybody that nothing had affected her emotionally. It would be draining to wear that mask all week, but it’s something she could focus her energy on instead of dwelling over what she couldn’t control.

Luckily Ben wouldn’t be there — he told her he was going to visit his grandmother this week, and it would be ‘boring family stuff’ so she didn’t need to join him. Now it made complete sense when she had offered to go regardless, but he kept telling her no, and eventually refused to discuss it further. Who knows where he was really going… someplace fun with Sara, probably, considering he used the term ‘vacation’ instead of ‘out of town’.

She and Ben had only taken one short trip together in three years; his excuses were that it was too expensive, took too much planning, he wanted to save his vacation time, or work was too busy. What was his real reason for not wanting to travel with her, she wondered… would it make their relationship too real to him?

Harleen shook her head and forced herself to stop dwelling on questions that would never get answered (and even if they did, she wouldn’t be appeased). Theorizing her inability to fall asleep naturally again, she swallowed some sleeping pills and crashed early.

***

Harleen’s dreaded workweek ended up dragging by painfully slow. Co-workers she encountered gave her a piteous smile or the ‘how did she not know’ glance, or avoided eye contact altogether (either not knowing or caring about the situation).

To make matters worse, her work-friend had night shifts all week so they never had time to chat. Kelly Jade, a nurse just starting her career, was Harleen’s favorite to work with — she was refreshingly passionate and cared about the patients. The few moments they were able to talk in private, Jade was just as baffled as Harleen was about the whole situation. Jade ultimately told her not to waste any more time or energy on that ‘self-righteous fuckwad’.

*

Jade thought Dr. Quinzel deserved so much better… it was frustrating to see her so drained. Jade hated how fabricated Dr. Ben’s charm was, constantly flirting with any of the female staff that would give him half a glance. He was subtle about it usually, but Jade saw right through his alpha-male posturing; maybe because she was gay, she was immune to that type of superficial enticement?

Though that never stopped Dr. Ben from testing the waters with her, but it was more amusing than annoying… for now.

Even though the Doc was finally free from Ben’s tethering, Jade knew it would take her awhile to recover; but she would support her however she could. She admired Dr. Quinzel so much! Anyone could see how much she cared about the patients, regardless of their reasons for being in Arkham.

*

Unfortunately for Harleen, the only other co-worker that did talk to her that week was the most annoying one.

Dr. Gabe started working at Arkham around the same time as her and Ben. The guys became fast friends, and by extension, a reluctant work-friend of Harleen’s. She never understood why Ben continued to pursue that friendship outside of work, though, since he constantly complained about Gabe being an ‘annoying moron’. She agreed with Ben’s assessment, but additionally as a woman, she found Gabe to be irritatingly smarmy.

However, he was being nice to her this week and she didn’t have the energy to care whether he talked to her or not. For a tiny moment, Harleen wondered if Gabe felt bad for her, since he and Ben most likely discussed his other relationship at length; but Harleen quickly brushed off that thought since Gabe had the emotional range of a potato.

Harleen guessed he was only attaching himself to her because Ben was gone and no one else wanted to be near or converse with him. He annoyed the hell out of his male coworkers and was always lascivious towards the female staff. (Gabe acted inappropriate towards Harleen once but Ben berated him for it later, so he never did it again.)

Regardless, she found him abhorrent, but had to ‘play nice’ since they were co-workers.

The budding psychologist in her wondered if Gabe was even aware of his lecherous conduct, or if he was just mimicking behavior the patriarchs in his life had taught him while growing up. Yet somehow, he had found a woman naive enough to marry him; Harleen pitied that girl immensely and wondered when she would come to her senses and ditch him before they brought kids into their lives.

Harleen snickered to herself at the thought of offering Gabe some much-needed therapy someday… he was probably dense enough that she could subtly psychoanalyze him while working together.

***

Friday afternoons were always quiet around Arkham, most of the non-critical weekday staff having gone home early, and the psychiatrists were either done with their therapy sessions by four, or locked in their offices, hunkered-down and working late.

The patients they housed at Arkham right now weren’t particularly destructive or violent; the most dangerous one (or so the media and Batman would have everyone believe) was Ivy. She was fairly calm most of her time here though, preferring not to interact with anyone. If she ‘behaved’, the staff left her alone for the most part…

Ivy had escaped Arkham once before during Harleen’s employment, so she figured it was only a matter of time before it happened again. But as a medical doctor, that wasn’t her problem, so she didn’t give it a second thought.

Batman had unceremoniously dropped her off about a month ago, having caught her after she killed some politicians responsible for passing a Chemical Waste Disposal ordinance (which would basically pollute the shit out of Gotham river).

Harleen vividly remembered seeing the shocking sight of the guards dragging a restrained Ivy into the building, hogtied and literally muzzled as if she was Hannibal. As they strapped her down on the portable gurney, heedless of her bruised and bloody body, she overheard Ivy yelling at everyone that they were “barely sentient bags of meat”, which made her chuckle uncomfortably in agreement.

Politics and laws aside, Harleen often wondered how Batman could get away with just dropping someone off at Arkham, completely bypassing the police and judicial system. Doctor’s Arkham and Strange just seem to accept them without argument, or referral or transfer paperwork. The patients might have ended up in Arkham eventually if a judge found that they’d benefit from a mental-health facility versus a prison… but she didn’t like to dwell on it for very long, since it was highly disconcerting (not to mention, out of her control).

Dr. Quinzel had gotten to know Ivy during her medical checkups and a few therapy sessions that the psychiatrists allowed her to participate in, since she was studying to become one. As much as Ivy’s biological condition and ‘abilities’ fascinated Harleen, she would never deign to study her like a lab rat; other doctors had attempted it, under the guise of helping or curing her, but it did not end well for them (much to Harleen’s amusement).

The rest of the staff finally figured out that Ivy detested everyone and just wanted to be left alone. She had surprisingly warmed up to Harleen, though, when they both ranted about politicians not giving a shit about Climate Change during a checkup. Feeling like they had more rapport, Harleen jokingly started calling her ‘Red’ after that, which surprisingly amused Ivy enough that Harleen could have sworn she saw a tiny smile appear on her permanently stoic face.

It gave Harleen confidence that pursuing psychology was ultimately a good decision, and she was glad she ignored Ben’s unsupportive diatribe.

*

When her Friday shift was finally over, Harleen was sitting at one of the computers in the currently-empty communal doctor’s office finishing up patient charts and itching to go home (and trying not to recall the events of last Friday). Feeling like she could finally talk about the situation, though, she sent Frost a quick text letting him know she’d call him on Sunday with the whole story.

She was emotionally better now compared to Monday, but exhaustion was starting to win out (plus she hadn’t eaten much this week since it still felt like there was a rock in her stomach). But she was on the mend overall and taking advantage of it — even boldly swapping out her usual red blouse for a blue one.

As she started to exit out of her lab charts, she heard Dr. Gabe knock lightly on the opened door. She glanced up at him while continuing to log-off. “I thought you went home?” she asked impassively, noting that he didn’t have his doctor’s coat on anymore and looked strangely casual.

“Not yet… I had to finish up a thing,” Gabe hesitantly explained. “Actually, could you help me with something real quick? I found some, umm, lamps in storage we could use up here.”

Harleen barely held in an annoyed sigh and reverted back to ‘polite weekday Dr. Quinzel’. “Sure… just gimme two secs…”

Gabe disappeared from the doorway as she finished logging out; she felt a little obliged to do him this favor, considering he was the only one talking to her all week. She removed her lab coat, folded it, then tossed it into the drawer where her purse was previously secured.

Sighing and trying not to scowl, she left the office to find Gabe and one of the guards, Stan, chatting in the hall. (Harleen made a point to be on a first-name basis with the Guards and Orderlies so she wasn’t one of those snobby doctors that used their PhD as an excuse to act like an entitled douche bag.)

She gave Gabe a neutral smile when she caught his attention, signaling that she was ready to help. As they started walking downstairs to the storage rooms, she noticed Stan was joining them. Glancing at Gabe and raising an eyebrow, she quipped, “We need three of us to carry a lamp upstairs?”

He casually replied with a shrug, avoiding her eye contact. “There’s some other things I wanna bring up… figure it’s faster with more people.”

‘Great’, Harleen thought, of course this ‘quick’ favor was turning into an ordeal when she desperately just wanted to go home and shed her sociable/polite work mask.

The guys weren’t talking as they all ventured down to the basement, which she was grateful for since she didn’t have the energy for any more chitchat. When they arrived at a small room at the end of the hall, Harleen went in first and flipped on the florescent-tube lights.

The items in this room looked like they hadn’t been touched in years; everything was outdated and dusty, and had probably been there since Dr. Arkham’s great-great grandfather built the place. Gabe and Stan followed her into the room as she walked over to where a few lamps were loitering.

“Which ones do you want?” Harleen asked in an irritated tone, losing patience quickly.

Suddenly she felt someone grab her shoulders roughly from behind; she was barely able to squeak out a yelp of surprise before a hand clamped down over her mouth and her back was pressed up against Stan’s chest. Her eyes widened in shock as much as they could when she saw Gabe step in front of her, holding a scalpel uncomfortably close to her face, as the guard kept her immobilized.

Before she could start struggling, Gabe sternly spoke, “You have two choices… behave and live, or fight back and I’ll slit your wrists and make it look like suicide.”

Harleen’s shocked eyes changed to furrowed, angry slits. Once again, on Friday evening at her workplace, she was in complete shock. She wondered what the fuck was happening with the universe this week? Why was all this shit happening to her?

She tried to focus her thoughts as they flitted by like lightning flashes. The first instinctual option was to knee Gabe in the crotch, but he was being awfully erratic with that scalpel. She didn’t think he would actually cut or stab her, but she also didn’t think he was capable of this volatile situation, either.

Her anger started to boil slowly — perhaps she could bide her time and hopefully find an opportunity to fight back or get out of this room (while preferably not be bleeding). For a split second, she found it amusing that Gabe needed a weapon, a bodyguard, and the threat of death to dominate and attack her.

With her eyes narrowing and jaw clenching, she took a deep breath and slowly nodded her head a couple times to agree to the first option he offered her.

“Good,” Gabe said smugly. “Stan is gonna remove his hand so keep your mouth shut. This is going to happen either way, so you might as well get out of it unharmed.”

Harleen was fuming now… unharmed?!? He thinks assaulting someone isn’t harmful?? The nerve of this idiotic piece of shit loser! And he’s giving _her_ an ultimatum… she had never been more disgusted in her life — this supposed ‘friend’ was about to touch her, intimately, without her permission. Her face was so sore already from clenching her jaw to hold back insults (and saliva) to spit at him.

If this had happened before last week, she would have been terrified right now; but after the Ben drama, her capacity for fear was completely depleted. The only emotion in abundance right now was anger — bitter, acidic, hateful fucking anger!

And now what this creep was proposing… she was done with cowardly men and their bullshit!!!

She focused on Gabe’s eyes, trying to get a read on him — what did he think was going to happen after this was over? Did he stupidly assume she wouldn’t report it?? Best-case scenario, he goes to jail, but that’s _IF_ they believed her side of the story in the first place. Even then, he’d probably only get three months because he’s “such a good doctor with a family and promising future”… he’d be back at work after he was released, no doubt.

Then she briefly wondered if there’d be DNA evidence… but immediately felt too sick about that to ponder it further. And the next thought made her even more ill — what was Stan’s role in all this?? Probably not to just play lookout… Harleen surprisingly resisted the urge to throw up.

Stan finally removed his hand and roughly turned Harleen to face him. Before she could protest, he zip-tied her hands together with flex-cuffs that all guards carry. Harleen let out a grunted scoff as Stan shoved her away from him and the doorway; he turned around, flipped the lock on the doorknob, then left the room and closed it tightly.

Seeing a guard standing outside a storage room would be a red flag to anyone walking by, but because this was an unfrequented basement hallway in a huge facility, it was likely that no one would venture down here, especially on a Friday evening — they had timed and planned this perfectly for no interruptions.

Harleen tried to focus her mind but her adrenaline spiking made it hard to be patient to wait for a prime opportunity to bolt. Her heart was beating so hard that she was surprised her ribs didn’t crack.

Gabe grabbed her arm and manhandled her to a section of the room where the floor was least cluttered; he pointed at the ground and barked at her to lie down. She inhaled and started to naturally protest, but he pointed the scalpel at her and scowled. “Don’t make me hurt you,” he threatened.

Of course he was shifting the blame onto her… it’d be all _her_ fault if she got injured — god, he was such a cliché!

Harleen awkwardly sat down on the dusty, tiled floor (her pencil skirt and bound hands made it difficult). Alternate options of escape started running through her head now that she was in a seated position, but Gabe quickly moved to hover over her, forcing her to lie down entirely.

Her body stiffened as she inhaled sharply, then pinched her lips together to prevent spitting in his face. Getting cut might not be so bad, she thought, but bleeding-out (even in a medical facility) would hinder her escape efforts. The desire for survival annoyingly started to take the lead over potential mental and physical trauma… her mind became unfocused by all the possible outcomes, but ultimately she decided to get out of this room before it got worse.

When Gabe yanked her cuffed arms over her head, Harleen abruptly snapped back to reality. Even though she was still more angry than afraid, she felt a twinge of paralyzing fear surge through her, but was determined to redirect it and use to her benefit.

Just as she started to focus her dread, she saw Gabe put the scalpel down by her hip; he must have realized he can’t hold it _and_ her arms at the same time without having a free hand. He grabbed her breast roughly and pressed his crotch into her pelvis.

Harleen’s whole body involuntarily tensed up and she held her breath — his touch burned like acid and made her want to vomit. She forced her mind back to escape plans; if she could get ahold of that scalpel, or prevent him from getting it back, she’d be golden...

As Gabe started to yank her blouse out of her skirt, he vainly smiled at her. “I asked Ben if you were off limits... he said he was done with you and couldn’t care less.”

Harleen’s thoughts about escape slowly seeped out of her head; her brow furrowed in contemplation. She felt his warm breath on her face while he continued to talk at her. “He also said you like it rough…”

Abruptly, her rage snapped her completely into focus — Harley felt this warm, pleasant wave of clarity wash over her. Her adrenaline, along with the anger that had been compiling all week (plus that twinge of fear) fused together.

It was unbelievable that Ben had talked to Gabe about their private sex life, like frat boys in a locker room — no wait, she did believe it at this point… _of course_ he did. Finally it dawned on her that she didn’t know Ben at all; there seemed to be an endless supply of bullshit from him. And ‘rough’ was such a subjective term, of course Gabe assumed it meant one encompassing technique.

Harley’s body started to relax as she saw the most gorgeous shade of red cross her field of vision. She dipped her chin down, narrowed her eyes, and glared at Gabe with abject hatred. The smile that appeared on her face didn’t reach her eyes; quietly she started giggling at the absurdity of this ordeal (and her life up to this point).

Gabe pause his actions of unbuttoning her top. “What’s so funny?” he seethed, but with a hint of curiosity.

Harley looked him directly in the eyes and changed her smile to feigned seduction. She calmly asked, “Do you wanna know what gets me off?” She reluctantly shifted her hips slightly to coerce him into asking what it was. Luckily his ego was curious, which she was counting on, and Gabe asked for the answer.

She smiled sweetly at him and whispered, “It’s a secret…”

Gabe’s curiosity won out and he automatically turned his head so his ear was closer to her mouth. Harley inhaled deeply like she was about to spill the biggest secret ever; instead of speaking, she opened her mouth as wide as she could and bit down on the side of Gabe’s neck — every ounce of hate she accumulated over the week was fueling the strength it took to lock her jaw!

He screamed in the highest pitch his voice could go and tried to pull away, releasing his grip on her wrists, allowing Harley to fling her arms forward and loop them around his neck to keep him from pulling away. When he was finally able to tear himself from her grip (which was the worst thing he could have done), a piece of his skin remained in Harley’s mouth.

Blood was pouring down Gabe’s body as he continued to scream, compulsively holding his hand up to the bite mark like it would help. Harley sat up and spit out the chunk of flesh onto the floor, then harshly laughed. She was hoping she had bit through his carotid artery… he’d bleed out in a minute, she thought smugly.

By now, Stan was pounding loudly on the door and trying to turn the knob (but he apparently forgot he had locked it, so there was no getting in without a key). He slammed into it with his shoulder a few times to no avail.

Harley continued to giggle, pausing for a bit to wipe the tears from her eyes, then spotted the forgotten scalpel. She picked it up with her cuffed hands and scooted over to Gabe; he was lying on his side, still clutching his neck, surrounded by a coagulating pool of blood.

She looked down at him and tilted her head in contemplation; it was disappointing that he was unaware of her presence by now, but she whispered to him anyway, in a saccharine tone. “I get it now… it’s all a fucking joke.” She smiled genuinely and added, “Isn’t it liberating?”

She snickered and started frantically stabbing Gabe’s groin, hoping to hit something important (but not really caring that much since he wasn’t going to live anyway). After a decent amount of jabs, Harley shuffled back to the wall and leaned against it; she folded her knees, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath of calming relief.

Her blood-smeared shirt and skirt were askew, her chin drenched in red, and her bun disheveled. She brought her bound hands up to her mouth and wiped off some of the blood, then started giggling again in self-satisfaction. It didn’t occur to her to use the scalpel, now sitting on the floor by Gabe, to remove her cuffs — she was too blissfully content at the moment.

*

Stan had called for more guards on his walkie after his door-bashing efforts failed, yelling at them to bring a set of storage keys. This little excursion, that the Doc had promised would be ‘fun and easy’, had backfired... Dr. Quinzel should have been the one hollering, not Dr. Gabe!

His hands started to shake uncontrollably from the adrenaline spike. Regardless of the potential consequences, Stan figured he could explain why he was in the unfrequented basement, if it meant helping Dr. Gabe (who would vouch for him in a heartbeat). But the way the Doc screamed… it’d be only his word against Harleen’s.

*

When two curiously frantic guards arrived and got the door open, all they saw was Dr. Quinzel sitting casually against the wall, covered in blood and giggling, while Dr. Gabe lay dead on the floor. All three guards stared at the scene in abject horror, their eyes comically wide; none of them wanted to go into the room any further than the doorway.

After a few moments, Harley noticed them staring at her. She waved at them with her bound and bloody hands, then exclaimed cheerily, “Oh hey guys! Who’s up for sloppy-seconds?” She wrinkled her nose and giggled at her own joke while the guards gave each other puzzled glances.

Stan told one other guard to radio for more help and a sedative, then reluctantly approached Harleen (holding his asylum-issued baton unsteadily at his side). He reached out his other hand and quietly said, “C’mon, Dr. Quinzel… let’s… get you out of here...”

He cautiously approached her like she was a wild animal — he was right to be afraid. As Stan got within Harley’s reach, she snarled and lunged at him, riding him down to the ground and hitting his face awkwardly with her cuffed hands as hard as she could.

“DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME!!!” Harley screamed, her eyes gleaming with malice.

Stan yelped and tried to block her hits, but was only half successful — he was no match for her indignant rage. The two other guards pulled her off of him by the upper arms as Harley continued to snarl, scream, and kick at anything she could reach. “Get off me!!! Don’t touch me!!!”

Within moments, they had her pinned facedown on the ground while an Orderly ran over and injected her with the asylum’s standard sedative. She started to feel groggy right away, her mind and body leisurely relaxing into a haze. Harley giggle-sobbed quietly as the world around her faded to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once we get through the backstory, it gets a lot more fun, I promise… I have much more written, including their first meeting, I just need to edit. I’m hoping to post updates frequently and getting Chapter 1 on here will encourage me to focus (i.e. avoid my adult duties and just write)!
> 
> P.S. Quotes/phrases pulled from other awesome fanfic or TV shows/movies will be cited at the end of each chapter.


	2. Chapter 2

Harleen gradually started to wake up, her breathing leveling out, but she still felt too lethargic to open her eyes. She didn’t remember her bed being so hard or her sheets feeling so thin; her head was pounding and she starting to feel slightly claustrophobic.

She wondered for a moment if she was hungover since it was Saturday now, but couldn’t remember drinking the night before, or even going home for that matter... was it even Saturday? Her thoughts were scattered and frustratingly diffused. When she was finally able to open her eyes, she saw what looked like a metal toilet/sink combination attached to a padded wall opposite.

The events of the past 24 hours started to trickle back into her head, and subsequently caused her heart rate to jump. Harleen tried to move her arms to assist in siting up, but they were stuck tight to her body; she looked down and her eyes widened in disbelief — she was in a fucking straight jacket!

Immediately feeling alert, she sat up without hesitation, inhaled sharply, then scooted back into the corner of the bed that was attached to the wall (as if retreating any measure of distance would help her situation). Her eyes snapped shut and she tucked her chin down, trying not to hyperventilate.

The last thing she remembered was feeling that sharp needle jabbing into her neck. ‘Oh my god, they sedated her’, she thought in disbelief as a lump formed in her throat. People she worked with for the past five years drugged her, stuffed her into a straight jacket, and tossed her into a padded cell.

Granted, she could _maybe_ understand their reflex to incapacitate her, since she was covered in blood and punching Stan…

But now, waking up in a dimly lit room with no windows... it was unthinkable. This was NOT happening! Harleen pinched her eyes closed and shook her head to get her bearings.

When her breathing was under control after a few moments, she opened her eyes and reluctantly peered at her legs… she was wearing the orange Arkham-brand patient scrubs. That meant someone had undressed her at some point and cleaned off all the blood… that was a whole different kind of violation she couldn’t process at the moment.

Even though she was still disoriented, Harleen slowly stood up and shuffled towards the cell door. The bottom half was solid except for a tray slot at the floor and the top half was barred like a stereotypical jail.

Harleen rested her forehead on two bars and peered out into the bright hallway, painted in the standard ‘soothing beige’ hospital color. She spotted a stairwell door nearby and saw the number three and letter ‘F’ stenciled on it — the 3rdfloor, Wing F — reserved for difficult or violent patients that frequently needed sedation, restraining, or extra guards.

Getting more lucid by the minute, Harley’s anger started resurface. Her colleagues had the audacity to lock her up in the volatile section of the facility!

“Fuck this,” she seethed out loud, immediately feeling her dry throat tighten. She kicked on the bottom panel of the door a few times and yelled out to anyone within earshot — “HEY! What the fuck am I doing in here!?!? Hello!!!”

She didn’t care who she was disturbing with her noise… she was done giving a shit about anyone.

There were zero windows in her cell or the hallway, so the time of day wasn’t apparent. When no one answered her, she kicked the door again harder, ignoring how thirsty she was, and drawled loudly, “HELLO!”

After a few more kicks with her weakening legs, a guard finally showed up. It wasn’t Stan, thank god — he was probably nursing some facial wounds, she thought with a smirk. But this guard had been there with the others while she was being tackled and sedated.

Fear was starting to override her anger and her voice hitched when she asked him why she was locked up. He looked at her impassively and replied with an irked sigh, “Miss Quinzel, you have to wait till morning to talk to your doctor about it, so please settle down.”

Now she was furious… her eyes widened as she took note that he removed her ‘Doctor’ title.

“ _MY_ doctor? I _AM_ a fucking doctor!!!” She kicked the door again out of frustration, but then closed her eyes and sighed deeply as mild vertigo swam over her. Harley tried to regain some composure and level out her tone of voice, even though her headache was distracting.

Subduing her voice just barely, she asked, “Why was I assigned a psychiatrist? I’m not a patient, what the fuck is going on?” She let out an exasperated breath, then spoke in an indignant tone while glowering at the guard. “Let me out of here… right… now.”

He disregarded her demand and continued to tell her to calm down, like she was a petulant child. Harleen switched tactics and pleaded with him to tell her why she was locked up. He finally threatened to call for an Orderly to sedate her again if she didn’t be quiet. At the mention of another spate of unconsciousness, she suddenly felt sick; her head was spinning and she couldn’t focus any longer to deliberate.

She huffed and clumsily flopped back down on her cot, acquiescing to the situation. As her eyes drooped from the lingering injection, she started to hope that this was some awful, vivid nightmare, and she’d wake up soon in her own bedroom.

A hopeless sob started to manifest in her throat — no one knew she was locked in here except a few coworkers. She told Frost she would call him today, but if she didn’t, he wouldn’t worry about it for a while, assuming she wasn’t in the mood to chat.

Completely losing her faculties, she decided to stop resisting sleep and drifted off while her mind drowned in confusion.

***

Harleen woke again to the sound of someone knocking gently on her cell door. Slowly she opened her eyes and saw a slim figure with dark brown hair and glasses in a white doctor’s coat; as her vision adjusted, she recognized it was Dr. Crane.

(He was only about five years older than her, but was extensively published. They had chatted a few times about his research in psychopharmacology for her classwork, but other than that, their paths didn’t cross enough for them to be more than work acquaintances.)

She uncomfortably lifted herself up to a sitting position on her cot and looked at Crane. If anyone could get her the hell out of this cell, it’d be him — he knew she wasn’t a criminal or mentally compromised.

“Dr. Crane…” she spoke hoarsely as she slumped back against the wall.

Before she could continue, he interrupted her in his clinical tone, “Do you remember what happened, Dr. Quinzel?”

At least _he_ still thought of her as a doctor, unlike that idiot guard.

“Yes,” she replied, feeling more alert. “I killed a coworker and attacked a guard… now I’m locked up in the same area as the violent patients.” She lingered on the last part with an afflicted voice; her jaw unclenched just enough so she could irritably blow a strand of hair out of her face.

As reality was starting to sink in, she swallowed the lump in her throat while trying to hold back tears threatening to form.

Dr. Crane continued to look at her dispassionately. “We can get into specifics during our session later, but we all felt it best to place you on a 72-hour hold until the investigation is complete. Then we’ll evaluate your mental health after that and determine if you can be released.”

Harleen stared blankly at him; being emotionally and physically drained, she couldn’t react at all to what he said. Or it could be the sedative still permeating in her bloodstream, and the sheer exhaustion from this past week of _unceasing_ bullshit — all of the above, she decided.

She desperately wanted to bury her face in her hands; not in the mood for any more talk, she asked him just one question. “Is Stan’s nose broken?”

Dr. Crane nodded ‘yes’ with indifference, though a slight tilt to his head showed some of his curiosity at her choice of question.

“Good,” she stated, snickering while a sneer appeared on her face. Leaning her head back against the wall, she closed her eyes and sighed.

*

As Jonathan walked back to his office, he couldn’t help but contemplate Dr. Quinzel’s behavior. They had had a few conversations regarding his research for her classes, and he found her to be very motivated and bright. Her coworkers had said she’s an excellent medical doctor that seems invested in all of her patients, regardless of why they were at Arkham.

Her desire to shift gears to psychology was intriguing — she had even shadowed some of his colleagues during their sessions, and the patients seemed to take to her quite easily. He even heard that Ivy, whom he knew loathed everyone, said Dr. Quinzel ‘wasn’t horrible’ (which was high praise coming from her).

And now today, she seemed very undaunted about the consequences of killing someone — she was impassive to the mental ramifications, at least for now. He was very much looking forward to their first session; if she remained a patient here, there would be some treatment options to consider, and an experimental medication that he was eager to start beta-testing.

***

Harleen never realized how horrible the food was here, but she ate since she was starving at this point. An Orderly she didn’t recognize brought her breakfast and told her if she didn’t harm him, he could remove the straight jacket.

She absolutely needed to be out of that torture device, so she remained calm (though irritated that he was talking to her like she was a seasoned, unstable patient). The urge to reiterate that she was an employee here was overwhelming — she was a doctor, for fuck’s sake! But there was no point; he couldn’t do anything about it anyway.

Thankfully her session with Dr. Crane was before noon so she didn’t have to wait long to get her burning questions answered. Feeling very alert as the morning progressed, she decided to spend her time focusing her memory on the past 24 hours.

Vividly she recalled stabbing Gabe with the scalpel a handful of times, which probably did look pretty bad from a mental-health standpoint. But it’d be easy to convince Dr. Crane that it was a moment of ‘temporary insanity brought on by stress’ — even though she enjoyed the shit out of it. It’s a legitimate mental condition that happens to a lot of ‘normal’ people, so they can’t fault her for that.

The rest was boilerplate self-defense, so discussing it would be unproductive.

*

At 11am (or so she assumed), Harleen was escorted to Crane’s office — there were two guards with her, one on each side. She couldn’t decide if she should be offended or amused at how dangerous they thought she was.

But once they exited Wing F’s secure doors, walking through the hallways in her disheveled state, seeing coworkers she had _just_ socialized with yesterday, giving her the entire gamut of looks… it was _extremely_ uncomfortable.

Harleen instinctively crossed her arms over her stomach and stared down at the floor the rest of the way.

As a medical doctor, she hadn’t spent much time in the psychiatry wing of Arkham, but the layout was similar to the floor she usually worked on. Any patients with medical appointments or health issues were usually brought directly to the hospital section, either escorted or sedated.

Dr. Crane’s office was just as she remembered it from the few visits prior — it was wall-to-wall books and binders, plus some tumultuous paintings hung up where there wasn’t a bookcase or window. He didn’t seem to have any personal items though… no family pictures or trinkets, which she found peculiar (and a bit sad). It was all business with him, she figured, which could be used to her advantage to get the hell out of here. His analytical mind would be a great judge of her mental competency.

She sat down in the chair across from his desk, her posture perfect, and let out a quiet sigh to steady her thoughts.

Dr. Crane opened a file-folder on his desk that had her name on it. Harleen’s brow furrowed slightly — she already had a file? This whole situation was already incredulous… she shook her head imperceptibly to reset her waning focus.

Crane shut the folder and made eye contact with her, his gaze void of any emotion. “Dr. Quinzel, do you understand why we decided to place you on a 72-hour hold?” he asked in his clinical voice.

Harleen’s eyes twitched slightly with irritation — was he seriously trying to ‘doctor’ her right now? He was treating her like a seasoned patient… and he keeps saying ‘we’; she wondered which doctors were included in the group that co-admitted her so easily.

But she had to remain calm, so she swallowed what she really wanted to say, and used her clinical voice, too.

“I was admitted because I defended myself against a coworker who tried to assault me; then I attacked the guard who stood watch outside the door, who was most likely waiting to participate in said assault. I can understand why the situation warranted my sedation and being placed into a cell. Though it isn’t necessary now, I’m not a danger to myself or anyone else.” Harleen clenched her jaw a tiny bit, hoping this was working.

Crane’s impersonal gaze faltered for just a glimpse; he studied her for a moment, then asked, “And the action of castrating Dr. Gabe, would you consider that reprisal or self-defense?”

Harley bit the inside of her cheek, barely fighting back a smirk at the thought of having stabbed Gabe’s groin area so much, that the official report would read ‘castrated’.

She took a deep breath to swallow the laugh that was about to burst out. “It was a moment of temporary hostility brought on by stressors I experienced in my personal life last week, and the attempted assault. It was, unfortunately, out of my control. But again, temporary,” she reiterated.

She cringed internally and her fingers twitched with nervousness; it was starting to feel like she was on trial…

Dr. Crane reopened the file again and made a few notes. Harleen fought back a disgusted scoff — he was making notes like she was in therapy? How long did she need to play this tiresome game… and what happens after she’s released? Does she transition from patient to doctor in one minute, changing into her lab coat like nothing ever happened?

Unbeknownst to Harleen, her posture slowly started to degrade and her leg gently bounced.

*

Crane was fascinated at how calm she was — she had killed someone, brutally, and attacked a guard. But she seemed to have no PTSD or anxiety about any of it, only acrimony about being locked up against her will. ‘Trapped’ was the comprehensive term, he mused, and added a few notes to her file.

Perhaps it was too early to categorize any of her reactions though, since it had only been 18 hours since the incident. He was starting to realize that he definitely wanted — no, needed — more than a weekend to analyze her psychologically.

Luckily with paperwork these days, and how trusting people are with psychiatrists and doctors, he could easily have her committed. Another doctor could be encouraged (or coerced) to sign off, to keep her here indefinitely. Dr. Arkham, their resident desk-warmer, was always eager to sign whatever forms Crane put in front of him…

And if she has any family members that could protest her admission, it would take at least a week just to get her file relinquished, plus another few weeks for a court date (if it even came to that).

Dr. Crane was starting to think this was kismet for his new prototype… the perfect test subject just appeared at the right moment, hiding in plain sight! Shielding the excitement in his eyes was becoming extremely difficult; he had to find out what actually affected her psyche — clearly violence and murder weren’t on the list.

Digging into her subconscious mind would be absolute perfection… but he was getting distracted. Focusing on the task at hand, which was the intake paperwork, is priority.

“The guard you stated that had stood watch, Stan, he told us a different version of events.” Crane knew that Stan told them all a fabricated story, but he decided this information was irrelevant for Dr. Quinzel (but he was curious how she’d feel about it).

*

Harleen noticed Dr. Crane was studying her intensely with his penetrative ice-blue eyes; it was definitely creepy, she thought, and was starting to see why everyone thought he was ‘weird’.

Harleen’s mouth opened a little bit and gently she inhaled, wanting to yell that Stan was a liar and an asshole, but instead, she asked calmly, “What was his _perception_ of the incident?”

Crane opened a separate folder that was on his desk and glanced over the report that apparently had Stan’s drivel. “He stated that he was patrolling the basement hallways when he heard someone screaming. He followed the sound to a locked storage room and called for backup when he heard a commotion from the inside. Once another guard was able to open the door with a set of keys, he said: Dr. Quinzel was wielding a scalpel, having killed Dr. Gabe for unknown reasons, and laughing about it.”

Harleen pursed her lips and glared at the file Dr. Crane was reading from. But luckily, she could see that he wasn’t trying to hide his amusement at Stan’s concocted report.

He continued, “What I find curious though, is that Stan said you and Dr. Gabe were on good terms — seemingly friends, even; so you attacking him, unprovoked, doesn’t quite add up. And from what I understand, patrolling the _storage_ hallways isn’t a required duty for any guards.”

Harleen chuckled out loud and slumped back into her chair a little bit more. Of course Stan was sticking to the ‘I happened upon the scene’ story. Did Dr. Crane really not believe it? Or was he manipulating her into confessing or admitting she had some sort of psychotic break?

Harleen brought out her ‘doctor’ voice again. “And you, Dr. Crane, what do you think of Stan’s story? What’s your deduction of this situation?” Harleen gave the slightest hint of a smirk on her lips and a raised eyebrow, challenging him to be real with her, to talk to her like an _equal_ and not a fucking patient.

Dr. Crane smiled genuinely, though it still looked peculiar on him. “Stan’s story definitely seems fabricated, but the locked door, and the fact that you came out of this situation unharmed, with no bruising or signs of sexual assault, it’s not looking good for the official report.”

Harley couldn’t hold her professional composure any longer; she slumped completely in her seat and leaned her head back to rest on the chair. She let out a huge, long sigh — never in her life did she think she’d be in the ‘he said, she said’ situation, where they always blame the victim…

She didn’t feel like talking any more, especially not to a man or doctor right now. “How long till I get outta here?” she asked softly, the fatigue clear in her voice.

Dr. Crane replied dryly, “Well, you’re on a 72-hour hold at minimum, so if we were to release you, it would be Monday evening. Until then, I’ll meet with Dr.’s Strange and Arkham to discuss your case.”

Great, Harleen thought… three men deciding her fate, an attempted assault victim, with one other male witness who lied — she was probably fucked.

Needing to be out of this room and away from people before anger overrode her exhaustion, she closed her eyes and quietly asked, “Can I go back to my cell?” (That was a phrase she never thought she’d utter.)

“Of course, Dr. Quinzel.” Crane replied, feigning sympathy, though Harleen was too tired to analyze his inflections anymore.

He got up from his desk and knocked lightly on his office door; the two guards who escorted her to his office earlier, motioned for her to stand up and follow them, still acting as if she was volatile (regardless of her defeated posture).

*

Once back in her cell, Harleen flopped onto her cot and stared up at the ceiling. She hadn’t given them an excuse to sedate her since last night, so her mind was alert.

She spent the next few hours thinking about Ben — what would he think about all this when he came to work on Monday? He knew she wasn’t psychotic, but would he make any effort to get involved and convince them she should be released immediately? They both disliked Gabe and knew how disgusting he was, so Ben would believe her, right?

Those questions led to a long internal examination about their entire relationship over the next few hours.

Ultimately, even though he had a few positive traits, her overall diagnosis of Ben was ‘emotionally abusive narcissist’. How had she not seen it throughout their relationship? What kind of psychologist did that make her!?!

There were SO many red flags sprinkled over all the years she knew him, how could Harleen have been so oblivious? He constantly told her she was ‘being dumb’, and always criticizing and blaming her for the perceived problems in their relationship. Even here at work, he treated her like a stranger, but would switch gears in private (just enough to keep her from second-guessing his feelings for her).

He had never been there for her emotionally, either, purposefully avoiding her after her father died, while she was grieving. Ben had used her for fun until he finally got bored and bailed. It was like she had Stockholm Syndrome… he treated her poorly, but she always made up excuses to stay with him (constantly seeking his approval at the same time).

Yeah, he was _not_ a good person. Why had it taken her this long to see it? Or was he that good at manipulating people? Was she so afraid to be single that she’d stay with this asshole no matter what? She never thought of herself as a co-dependent person… she enjoyed her ‘alone time’ usually.

Either way, she would never let anyone treat her like that _ever_ again.

Once she was free, maybe she could try to contact Sara and tell her about his behavior… women had an unspoken agreement to warn each other about assholes, right? Surely Sara would listen to her; or would Harleen just seem like the ‘crazy, jealous’ ex? Definitely the latter, unfortunately… it would be pointless.

***

Sunday felt like the longest days of Harleen’s life — being locked in a cell with no entertainment or anyone to talk to was torture. No wonder the ‘difficult’ patients seemed to be drugged all the time, they were literally being driven crazy from boredom.

Acting out was starting to seem like a great way to break up the monotony… or at least for the tranquilizer, just so you could sleep the days away.

Dr. Crane hadn’t been by yet to update her about the investigation status; but she still had faith in the doctors here, to recognize the truth of the situation. Harleen fantasized about all the things she was going to do when she got home… first, a _long_ shower; second, REAL food; third, sleep in her own bed for an entire day after taking PTO the rest of the week. She just had to get through one more day…

***

On Monday around noon, Ben stopped by to see her…

Harleen was dreading seeing his stupid face after all the relationship analysis she did over the past two days. And yet, she wanted to see him, to show him what she was being subjected to, so he could help her. She never treated him like crap, so he had no reason to be vindictive; she’d give him the chance to be a decent person and help her for once…

When he showed up outside her cell, she stayed seated on her cot in a meditative position with her back leaning against the wall. Harleen was relaxed, drug-free, and full of confidence… until she saw the look on his face — his expression was one of abject pity and disappointment.

Her stomach felt like it flipped inside out, and she knew immediately he wasn’t going to help her whatsoever. _Of course_ he believed Stan’s fictional story, even though Ben knew what a slime-ball Gabe was and that Harleen would never attack someone for no reason… did he know her at all!?!

Once Ben made eye contact with her, she couldn’t resist rolling her eyes dramatically while scoffing. She turned her head and squinted at him out of one eye, then waited for him to speak first; she couldn’t _wait_ to hear what he was going to say!

Ben sighed purposefully loud and pinched the bridge of his nose (like he was the long-suffering one in this situation). “Harleen… what were you thinking?” he asked in an exasperated tone.

Harley’s eyes widened — oh hell no, he did _NOT_ just put this whole situation _solely_ on her! Her body involuntarily froze as she felt unhindered rage boiling up inside of her (a feeling that was becoming familiar, though not entirely unpleasant).

“ _EXCUSE ME_???” she seethed. Why did she expect him to do anything different, to not blame her or not want to help her, like he had done with _everything_ in their relationship?

Ben continued, overlooking her anger. “Gabe liked you, how could you just… _attack_ him like that? He had a wife… and family…” He shook his head and sighed, “What’s gotten into you?”

Harley closed her eyes while her mind imploded with everything she wanted to say; all the mental processing she had spent on him for the past ten days resurfaced — she wanted to scream and berate him for being the biggest piece of shit in the world, and for inconsiderately wasting her time!

Abruptly, she leaped off her cot and charged the cell door so fast that Ben barely had time to stumble backwards out of her reach. Harley thrust her hand through the bars to try and grab his shirt collar — fully intent on throttling him!

She snarled, “I _KNEW_ IT! I _knew_ you’d think this was all my fault! Gabe tried to _RAPE_ me, you fucking asshole, and you take _HIS_ side!?!? You’re just as shitty as he is!!! Everything is _always_ my goddamn fault, according to you…” After she pointed an accusatory finger at him, Harley grasped the bars tightly on her cell door with both hands and clenched her jaw.

She was done hiding her emotions, done swallowing them and letting them fester! Fuck societal propriety — look where it got her… following the rules and 'playing nice’ got her locked up in an asylum, being persecuted for defending herself.

The enraged glare she gave Ben sent chills down his spine, which Harley happily noticed. She smiled at him ominously and spoke just above a whisper, as succinct as she could, “You... are… _useless_.”

Ben’s eyes widened impossibly large; he seemed afraid of her and she loved every second of it. She felt his fear wash over her like a warm bath… it was intoxicating! She didn’t need, or want, his help, Dr. Crane knows she’s not mentally unstable, so she’d be out of here in a few hours. Ben could fuck off and die, for all she cared… she was done with him.

“I’ll come back… later… after you calm down…” Ben mumbled, as he swiftly walked away.

Harley giggled and sat back down on her cot, reveling in the power she just exerted over him. Of course Ben sided with Gabe, she was ridiculous not to assume so beforehand. Now she knew the truth of it; her mind felt purged of debris, finally.

Apparently killing someone had given her some… perspective? She felt nothing over killing Gabe, she realized; did that make her a sociopath? Probably not, it was self-defense and only one person, but she should at least have PTSD or nightmares, though…

She shrugged and decided she could analyze these feelings in-depth when she got home.

***

What felt like a few hours later, Dr. Crane _finally_ showed up.

Harleen ran both hands over her face, smoothing her frizzy hair back, then stood against the wall next to her cell door. She was relieved this nightmare was over!

Ben never came back, which she knew would happen; it was doubtful that he’d ever look in her the eye again. Would working with him be awkward now? No, she decided… it will be for _him_ , not her; he’s the idiot and she has nothing to feel bad about. Plus, he’ll just continue to treat her like a stranger even more now, like usual, which was perfectly agreeable.

She smiled pleasantly at Dr. Crane, her eyes hopeful.

He offered her a forced, professional smile in return. “Dr.’s Strange, Arkham and I have reviewed your file, along with the investigation notes...” he spoke with his standard clinical voice. “We’ve considered all the evidence and based on your psychological reactions to Friday’s incident, we’ve decided to commit you indefinitely to this facility, until we can find the best course of treatment to help you recover.”

Harley’s earnest expression faded slowly and her mouth hung open as she was trying to remember how to talk. She couldn’t comprehend or accept what he had just said... her eyes slowly widened as she managed to utter one word: “What?”

Dr. Crane continued as if she hadn’t spoke. “Dr. Arkham and I have signed off on your admission forms, and Ben agreed to co-sign as your medical doctor, since he knows you well and can readily gauge your mental health status.”

Harley was having trouble swallowing and her vision started to tunnel; her heart was beating so hard, she could hear it in her ears. She closed her eyes briefly to try and focus. When she opened them again, Dr. Crane gave her his signature ‘concerned therapist’ smile.

“Don’t worry, Dr. Quinzel, you’ll get the best treatment here. We can discuss a medication plan and prepare you for ECT treatment at our session tomorrow.”

Harley didn’t remember much after he stopped talking… it was a delirious blur of screaming and crying, then ended with her being heavily sedated and stuffed into a straight jacket — again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, commenting and kudos, everyone, it's so motivating!!!
> 
> Don't forget to subscribe for chapter notifications, woot! Next one is written, just needs editing, which I plan on doing this weekend.


	3. Chapter 3

“Did you hear what I said, Dr. Quinzel?” Crane’s patronizing voice cut through her foggy daydream like a serrated knife.

Harley chuckled, then softly mumbled, “That’s what Ben said to me two weeks ago…” Then the smile melted off her face completely.

Except this time, she wasn’t by her car about to go home; instead, she was trapped in the cold, lifeless stone and metal bowels of Arkham. Because her ‘frequent violent outbursts’ made it impossible for her to receive therapy in a comfortable office setting, Dr. Crane decided to use the ‘volatile inmate’ area.

Harley was currently enveloped in a straight jacket that had chains weaving through the straps and clipped to her metal chair (which was welded to the floor) — rendering her torso entirely immobile. In addition, her ankles had cuffs that were chained to the chair legs, preventing her from straightening them.

Staying slumped in the chair as much as she could, Harley shifted her vision from staring at the wall back to Crane. “And don’t call me Dr. Quinzel,” she snapped.

Dr. Crane’s posture was perfectly rigid. “Whom am I speaking with now?” he asked curiously.

Harley snorted in disgust. “Oh for fuck’s sake, Crane, I don’t have D.I.D.”

She continued, her voice shifting to melancholy, “Harleen Quinzel vanished the second she tasted Gabe’s blood…”

While scribbling notes on the file in front of him, Dr. Crane clinically asked (as if he was filling out an insurance form), “So what should we call you?”

Harley paused, musing about how it felt to just let go of her old self and become someone new, someone with the advantage of a fresh start. It was oddly freeing, even though physically she was tied down more than a BDSM Submissive at the moment.

“Just call me Harley,” she shrugged.

“Ok… Harley Quinzel? You no longer require your doctor title?” Crane asked, continuing his frivolous notes.

No way she was keeping her original last name, either, Harley thought. Plus, she didn’t want her brother tied to the mess her life had become… and god-knows where she was headed in her future. Dismally she wondered if he had tried to contact her last week.

“Harley… Quinn…” she snickered deliriously. “Harley Quinn — sounds like harlequin… doesn’t it?” Her expression darkened as she glared at Crane, leaning forward as far as she could. “A little clown _doll_ all of you can play with for your amusement...” she smirked, challenging him to form a rebuttal.

Instead of replying, he went back to taking notes. Before he could say anything, Harley added in all seriousness, “Until I get outta here, anyway.” She leaned back against the chair, making the chains rattle loudly, looking wistfully back at the wall. And once she did get out, people were going to pay, she thought happily.

Dr. Crane lifted an eyebrow and tilted his head. “Are you expecting to be released at some point in the near future? We have a long way to go with your treatment and medications until we can even _consider_ that, doct-… Miss Quinn.”

Between ECT and being manhandled daily into a straight jacket, including injections every six hours, and their pointless attempts to give her ‘therapy’ for three days, Harley was angry… No, she was beyond anger — she had vaulted over the anger line and did a little dance on the other side while flipping everyone off with both hands. Harley felt like she was literally vibrating with rage…

She smiled eerily and looked back at Crane. “Awww, you gonna _cure_ me, Johnny?” she taunted, her voice drenched with malice.

Dr. Crane seemed unfazed by her replies and body language, stoic as usual, but Harley was enjoying herself regardless. It didn’t matter what anyone thought of her at this point; she was going to do and act however the fuck she wanted, especially around stick-up-their-ass psychiatrists who used to be her colleagues (who apparently had zero issues with this whole ordeal).

Crane continued in all seriousness, “Well, if you ever want to get released from here, you need to comply with our orders and work with us on your recovery.”

Harley rolled her eyes dramatically and scoffed. “As if you would _ever_ release me willingly…” she wrinkled her noise at him, then stared at the wall again. “By the way, _doctor_ Crane,” she drawled, "what’s in that 'medication' you’re giving me?” She hated not being able to make air quotes. “I know it's not just Thorazine… did you forget I was a doctor here, in the few minutes we’ve been chatting?”

His facial expression remained completely neutral, as if it was no big deal experimenting on patients with untested pharmaceuticals. “It’s just a mild prototype I’m developing; it will help you examine your suppressed subconscious to search for the underlying cause of your anger, which is generally borne of fear. Surely you recall in your studies, the need to administer specific medications to assist the mind in unlocking truths regarding what dictates our behavior.”

Harley’s eyes widened incredulously, but she kept staring at the wall, baffled that he would think talking at her in such a clinical, patronizing way would change her attitude. The only thing she was afraid of anymore was being trapped — which unfortunately, she was right now.

She glanced at the thin barred window high up on the wall behind Crane; she had no idea where to begin to escape this hellhole… She knew where all the standard and secured exits were in this facility, but none of the ‘secret’ unguarded ones that this old building was rumored to have.

*

Dr. Crane studied her preoccupied expression, waiting for her reply. She seems to have achieved Poison Ivy levels of distain for people in the week she’s been here. He was hoping ECT would make her more malleable and thus, allow for more intense psychotherapy. It also seemed that the dosage of his toxin might not be high enough; but that’s what beta-testing was for, and with Miss Quinn, he had all the time in the world to experiment.

*

Harley stopped chewing on the inside of her lip and sighed, “I think you’ll find me a disappointing subject for whatever you’re testing… I’m not afraid of anything anymore.” She still refused to look back at him.

“Well, the more compliant you are during therapy, the better your stay here will become. I find privileges always encourage patients to open up,” Crane stated ominously.

Harley wanted to spit at him — what made him think she would EVER talk to him… and about what?!? He had been at the forefront of her entire incarceration, what the fuck else does he want to know about? She wanted to make him tell her what was in that medication he was giving her, but that would only feed his ego for whatever he was testing. He must not have been dosing her with very much, though, since she didn’t feel any adverse side effects. Her anxiety was excessive and nightmares were more frequent and vivid, but that could easily be from her current predicament.

Reluctantly sighing out loud, she realized she might have to play the game… at least for a little bit, to bide her time and research escape capabilities. It could mean less ECT, as well; the fog it left her in for hours afterwards would be detrimental to breaking out.

There seemed to be no end to her exhausting déjà vu this month…

“Fine, Dr. Crane… whatever gets me closer to getting the hell out of here.” She started chewing the inside of her lip again, in lieu of bouncing her restless leg since it made the chains clank loudly.

“I think that’s enough for today, Miss Quinn. Tomorrow I’d like to start discussing the events of last Friday from the very beginning, the incident with Dr. Gabe, and what led you to the decisions you made.” Crane closed her file and stood up; he knocked on the metal door to the tiny room they were in, to let the guards know they were done.

Just hearing Gabe’s name made Harley twitch and her stomach clench… fuck, this was going to be a strenuous game to play, she thought.

As Crane was leaving, she couldn’t help herself — she needed the last word just for a taste of imaginary control. “Your ‘harlequin of hate’ awaits our next chat, _doctor_ …”

***

Ivy detested pretty much everybody — since her lab accident last year, she had grown more apathetic towards people and decided to just embrace it. Normally she couldn’t care less what happened to anyone in this facility, but what the staff was doing to Dr. Quinzel was absolutely appalling! Locking her up because she killed a troglodyte in self-defense, then throwing her into a cell, drugging her and trying to ‘cure’ her with ECT — she was the last person who deserved that treatment.

All it had taken was a couple male doctors to label their former colleague as ‘emotionally unstable’ and that got her swiftly locked up — it was frightening! Ivy always felt there was something ‘off’ with Dr. Crane, too. His delusions of omniscience would be his downfall someday… she knew from witnessing it first-hand, unfortunately.

The first time Ivy escaped Arkham, they made the mistake of putting her in a cell with a window on the 2nd floor, right near a Victoria Creeper that was crawling up the side of the building. Because her ability to control foliage wasn’t as practiced at that time, it took her longer to break out.

But this time around, they put her in a basement cell, with no windows, surrounded by cement. She had been slowly working on an escape plan for a couple months, relying on her pheromone abilities exclusively. Oddly out of character, though, she felt she had to help Dr. Quinzel (who preferred going by Harley now, per the rumors). But she couldn’t bring her with if Harley was sedated or couldn’t walk on her own…

Ivy had been pheromone-ing a guard for a couple weeks now, to get him to gather the guard’s shift information, where the cameras were, and find out which doors required an access card to get through. Once she had those details, he would ultimately be her escape escort (and now deliver a note to Harley in preparation).

Deciding they might need one more person to help them, Ivy had purposefully induced a rash on her arm (or rather, what looked like a rash), to get her into the medical wing in the middle of the night when it wasn’t busy, and a certain nurse was on duty.

She had seen the Doc getting along well with nurse Jade quite a few times and deduced they might be on good terms. Ivy decided not to use her pheromones on her at first, to see if she was open to assisting them, and luckily, she was all for helping.

*

In the medical wing, Jade informed Ivy that she had been trying to visit Harley, but the 3rd floor had severely restricted access and 24/7 guards posted in the hallways. But even if Jade had been able to get to her cell, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to do anything to help.

As far as the rest of the staff here, most didn’t know Dr. Quinzel well, or care what was happening to her; the rest were scared shitless to help or get involved, since if it was this easy for a doctor to get locked up at her own workplace, by her colleagues, it’d be even easier for them to fall into that trap, as well.

Luckily with Ivy now, the two of them were able to formulate a plan for the upcoming weekend...

***

After that irritating ‘therapy’ session with Crane, Harley found herself more alert than usual. For once, she didn’t put up a struggle when the guards (and two Orderlies armed with Thorazine) escorted her back to her cell, so there was no need for sedation. It was entertaining to watch them twitch every time she moved, in preparation for her impending attack. At the moment, that was more amusing than actually hurting them.

What wasn’t amusing, however, were the guards that looked at her with complete impassivity, like she was a stranger that hadn’t been a coworker for the past five years. They were also talking about her like she wasn’t even there… if they only knew the truth, or even bothered to ask her! Ignorance was a choice, she figured.

While lying on her back on her cot, hands behind her head and legs stretched out, Harley stared at the ceiling. Involuntarily chewing on the inside of her lip again, she contemplated if she would ever be released via paperwork if she could convince them she was ‘cured’. That could take years though, considering what she had learned during her psychology studies. Escaping the old-fashioned way seemed more productive… though she had no idea where to begin.

As she was debating just going to sleep and figuring it out tomorrow, she heard a light knock on the cell door. She looked up to see a young, new guard lean down and slip a piece of paper through the tray slot. He glanced numbly at her, nodded and swiftly walked away.

Harley sat up slowly, squinting her eyes and wondering if she should be suspicious; but curiosity and boredom quickly won out, so she got up and grabbed the paper. She unfolded it and her eyes widened with a beatific smile on her face, as she read the most incredible words she had ever seen!

_Doc,_

_We’re leaving in 2 days. Be good._

_–Red_

For the first time in weeks, Harley felt hopeful… like there was a light at the end of this long, dark, shit-filled sewer tunnel.

She tore up the note into confetti-sized pieces and flushed it down the toilet. Ivy having signed it with the nickname Dr. Quinzel had called her, led her to believe that it was legitimate. She was getting out much sooner than she thought!

Harley was intrigued though, why would Ivy go through the trouble to help her escape, when just leaving without her would, no doubt, be easier? Ivy had taken to her more than anyone else who worked at Arkham, but they weren’t friends by any means. She would just have to add it to the list of questions she already had for Ivy…

***

Over the next two days, Harley had been a quiet, model patient — no ‘outbursts’ meant zero need for Thorazine, which meant a clear head. The anti-anxiety meds they gave her daily (which only made her sleepy), she managed to squander. She’d be useless to Ivy if she were drugged-up when the time came to literally walk out of here.

And because Harley didn’t require sedation injections, Dr. Crane wasn’t able to slip in whatever it was he was poisoning her with… he was definitely on top of her list of ‘people to hurt once I escape’.

After the overhead lights went out at night on day two, Harley laid down, pretending to sleep when guards walked by during cell checks. She figured Ivy would leave in the middle of the night since there would be fewer people around, but the anticipation to finally be free was agonizing!

*

A couple hours after the lights went off, Harley finally heard a soft voice call out to her. “You ready?” Ivy whispered.

Harley jumped up off her cot like it was Christmas morning, which startled Ivy enough to make her take a step back and snicker. She immediately noticed that the young guard who gave her the note was standing behind Ivy — but he looked high… or in love… or both? That must be part of the ‘powers’ everyone said Ivy had (yet another question to ask her about later).

After Ivy compelled the guard to unlock Harley’s cell, he handed over his security card to Ivy, as well as his expandable baton — which Ivy gladly handed to Harley. She felt a twinge of satisfaction after taking it (secretly hoping she’d get to use it as they were leaving… a couple days without letting her anger take the lead felt stifling).

Ivy whispered at the guard to go distract the security officers who monitor the video feeds — she knew they could get out mostly undetected, but wanted to have as much time as they could before the alarms went off.

Harley let Ivy lead the way since she had escaped before and seemed to know this section of the asylum better than her. They were both walking as quietly as they could in their asylum-issued slip-on Keds, and made a point not to talk (only using gestures to communicate).

After awhile, it felt like Ivy was taking the long way out, but Harley figured it was to avoid the majority of cameras and security posts. They needed to use the guard’s keycard a couple times, but eventually, they made it to a long basement corridor. It was reminiscent of the storage hallway Gabe lured Harley to; she shook her head before those memories could resurface any further.

Harley’s heart was beating incredibly fast from the adrenaline rush and excitement of finally being free, but also nervousness of not wanting to get caught and thrown back into her cell (or worse, solitary, for the escape attempt). Ivy was the opposite — she seemed completely sedate, like she just had a massage.

When they finally arrived at the fire-exit door at the end of the hall, Ivy warned her they’d have very little time once they pushed it open, since the alarm would go off. But once they got closer, they saw it was propped open already (one of the guards had disabled the alarm for a smoke break, apparently).

The girls silently communicated their new plan, not wanting to waste any more time waiting until he was done. Harley stood in the corner where the door would open, thus hiding her from sight. Ivy was going to use her abilities on him, but Harley held up the retracted baton and wiggled it in her fingers with a hopeful smile across her face. Ivy just shrugged and decided to let Harley take care of him — she seemed to be craving some violence, which Ivy didn’t mind whatsoever (and didn’t blame the Doc for, considering all the shit she had been through).

Ivy went to stand about ten feet from the door and asked out loud, “Is someone out there?”

They heard the guard drop his cigarette and snuff it out with his shoe, then he pushed the door open (consequently hiding Harley behind it). When the guard spotted Ivy, his eyes widened as he simultaneously reached for his walkie. Before he could grab it, Harley extended the baton, stepped out from behind the door, and wacked him across the face.

He immediately brought his hands up to staunch the blood flowing out of his nose, but couldn’t react fast enough to dodge Harley’s backswing that hit him on the side of his temple. He fell to the ground like a boulder, rendered unconscious.

Harley recognized him from a few of her ECT escorts; she kicked him in the ribs out of spite, but mostly to make sure he was really out cold (or so she told herself). After stealing his walkie and keycard to buy them more time when he woke up, they dragged his body into a nearby utility closet. There was a thin blood streak across the floor from his nose, but they didn’t have time to cover their tracks.

Once outside, they followed the edge of the building around to the employee parking lot. Ivy led them to the back section where the lamps were intermittent or burnt out. Just as Harley started to wonder what they were going to do for transportation, she stopped in her tracks when she saw something delightful — standing by Harley’s car was nurse Jade with a relieved smile on her face.

Harley swallowed a girly squeal and jogged towards Jade, holding her arms out to give her a hug. Jade quietly chuckled, then handed Harley her purse after their quick embrace. She started to whisper a thank-you to Jade, but she waved her off.

“Those assholes had no right…” Jade couldn’t even finish her thought, she was so angry at the whole situation.

Harley smiled and stated with all seriousness, “I owe you big time!”

Jade shrugged, then shyly said, “I also grabbed some clothes and stuff from your apartment...” She gestured to the car’s backseat. “I figured you’d need some things since you probably can’t go back there for awhile…” then added solemnly, “or maybe ever.”

(Jade felt extremely awkward having gone through the Doc’s clothing and personal items yesterday, but hoped it was ok considering she wouldn’t have access to her condo once the facility found out she left; it’s the first place they’d look for her, no doubt.)

Jade continued, “Oh and your cell in the doctor’s office drawer kept beeping… I grabbed your purse before anyone else could. Anyway, they were a million missed calls and texts from your brother; we talked before the battery died and I told him about your situation, and he’s been trying to…” Harley interrupted Jade before she could finish her sentence with an even tighter hug. Harley was speechless at this point; the only noise she made was sniffling to try and swallow her grateful tears.

Not having much time, they quickly had to say their goodbyes. Harley and Ivy slipped into Harley’s car, Jade into her own, and they drove out of the parking lot.

Harley left the headlights off for now, following Jade’s car, making it seem like only one vehicle was leaving (if anyone bothered to look out a window). Once they came to the intersection over the bridge, off the Asylum grounds, they turned to drive separate ways.

It was chilly out, but Harley rolled down all the windows (to Ivy’s delight, as well) and inhaled the fresh, crisp air — she was FREE!!! Free from that hell those assholes put her in without a second thought, and no legal recourse.

She was glad Jade had talked to Frost so he knew his sis was ok (relatively speaking). Harley would have to contact him as soon as possible... but not tonight, getting somewhere safe was priority.

“So… where to?” Harley quietly inquired, feeling awkward that she was having a normal conversation with someone.

Ivy replied, “We’ll go to one of my houses... no one else knows about it, so the cops won’t find us.”

Harley nodded in silent agreement — she was too elated to stress over being potentially hunted down by the cops right now. It would have been wonderful to go to her home and pick up some personal stuff, but no doubt they would search for her there. (Mentally, she reminded herself again that she owed Jade a huge debt!)

As if Ivy could sense what Harley was thinking, she offered, “We can wait a few days for the panic to settle down, then sneak into your place to grab some things… but after that, you probably can’t go back,” Ivy finished despondently.

Harley nodded, then was silent for a few moments — if being free meant not having a home anymore, she’d gladly adapt to the situation. Giggling to herself, she wondered if she was technically a fugitive now, being a ‘violent’ patient that just broke out of a mental institution…

*

Following Ivy’s directions, Harley drove the speed limit for about 20 minutes, obeying all traffic laws. Getting pulled over by the cops, both dressed in bright orange Arkham scrubs, would not end well for anyone.

Ivy’s house was a cute little rambler in a sparse neighborhood, surrounded by patches of woods, which was excellent for privacy. Saying there were plants everywhere would be an understatement!

“It’s normally not so unkempt…” Ivy sighed heavily with irritation.

“I love it,” Harley quietly mused with a genuine smile. When they walked to the front door, she saw the plants bending towards Ivy, as if welcoming her home. (Yet another question for Harley’s "ask Ivy" list.)

After they got settled inside, Ivy suggested they both get some sleep and then they could talk about next steps.

Once Harley showered and changed into PJ’s Jade had packed her, she slowly melted into the guest bed — it had real sheets and a thick mattress! Harley couldn’t remember the last time she felt this comfortable…

Before her mind could start racing with questions about what her life would be like now, she conked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the small chapter, but I like where it ended and I want to get to the fun stuff faster, which means no more Arkham!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more 'bridge' chapter before the FUN starts! I'm SO over writing backstory, blegh.
> 
> Disclaimer - Harley and Ivy are just friends... sorry Hivy peeps, this is a Jarley story. Tho I am debating adding Frivy stuff...... :wink:

Harley was glad she hadn’t remembered any of her nightmares the next day, though she did recall jolting into consciousness a few times throughout the night, all sweaty and sore (but after changing into a fresh top and chugging water, she quickly passed out again).

When she woke the final time, Harley felt more rested than she had in weeks (even with the physical and mental exhaustion). After getting out of bed, she cleaned up and changed into some athleisure clothes Jade had packed her.

She found Ivy in the kitchen cooking breakfast for both of them, even though it was mid-afternoon; Harley figured she must have needed to catch up on sleep, too, after living in that concrete cage for so long.

“Did you sleep ok?” Ivy asked. “I’m guessing you did since you slept for 12 hours,” she added with a genial smile.

“I did… but I must’ve had bad dreams cause I woke up exhausted a few times,” Harley replied, then nodded her head towards the stovetop. “Can I help?”

Ivy shook her head. “Nope, you just relax,” she pointed at one of the chairs for Harley to sit down. After grabbing orange juice out of the fridge and placing it on the table, Ivy gave her a thoughtful look. “It could be withdrawal from the sedatives and meds they force you to take. After I left the first time, I swear I was sweating that shit out of my body for weeks! It’s so unhealthy…” she mused gloomily.

Harley made an agreeable ‘hmm’ sound between gulps of OJ. As a physician, she thought it odd that after only a week of injections, that her system would be going through that much withdrawal. It was probably a mix of anxiety and PTSD — or whatever the hell Crane was poisoning her with. Regardless, she wasn’t looking forward to dealing with the short- or long-term ramifications of any of it.

“I have some tea that might help you detox,” Ivy offered, while stirring scrambled eggs.

Harley nodded, “That’d be great… I’m hoping its just stress.” Harley rubbed her face with one hand, then propped her elbow on the table and settled her jaw in her palm; her eyes became haunted. “Crane told me about some drug he was giving me… _testing_ on me,” she sneered, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “I didn’t want to give that narcissist the satisfaction of asking details about it.”

Ivy turned off the burners, then grabbed plates and cutlery out of the cabinets. “I’ve heard rumors about it… supposedly it’s extracted from some rare Tibetan flora; it definitely warrants research.” Ivy was intrigued by this prospect, though she highly disagreed with how Crane was experimenting on people against their will. Her disdain for that sanctimonious prick outweighed her apathy towards strangers, but the properties of that flower might be something she could make use of in the future — or use to punish him for testing it on Harley. She found it puzzling why she felt so protective over her… but decided to lean into it.

“If you want, I could try some pheromone adjustments on you… for the nightmares and such… unless you’re fed up with being chemically altered.” Ivy gave Harley a sympathetic smile, then slightly regretted offering to help in that way — Harley probably had enough of being used as a lab rat.

Harley’s eyebrows rose curiously. She had _so_ many questions for Ivy but didn’t want to bombard her the day after their escape. Harley shrugged, feigning disinterest, “Might as well give it a shot… at least yours is natural — and you’re giving me a choice.”

While they both inhaled their delicious non-hospital food, Harley asked how long the police had searched for Ivy after her first breakout. She was anxious to go to her apartment and grab some more clothes, plus her guns… and probably a few sentimental things, too.

Ivy pondered her question for a bit. “They reported it on the news sporadically for a week, but the cops only searched for two days before giving up; or they ran out of city funds to spare on just me, probably. Of course, Batman is always looking for me… since I’m _popular_ ,” she stated with overt sarcasm, her eyes rolling dramatically.

Batman had been a _colossal_ pain in Ivy’s ass — she constantly wondered why he only seemed to focus on petty criminals or the media-hyped ones, just because they had a few meta-human capabilities. It was frustrating… he needed to set his sights on the mob or corrupt politicians if he actually wanted to make a difference and reduce crime in this city.

Harley gave Ivy a sympathetic look, wondering what it was like to have a vigilante hunting you. What would Batman think about Harley once he found out about her ordeal? Would he even bother to find out what really happened in the first place, if the police convinced him she was a threat? Or would he just dump her back at Arkham without a second thought, like Ivy?

Either way, Harley would evade him at all costs; she didn’t want to find out the answer…

“Do you think we could get into my place after a couple days? I’d love to grab the rest of my stuff and I have some cash there…” she trailed off. “I wonder if I’d be able to close out my bank account at some point; then I can at least start… paying you back, or do something… for all your help.” Harley smiled shyly, then chewed the inside of her lip. What _was_ the proper way to thank someone for breaking you out of an asylum where you were kept against your will by coworkers?

Ivy shook her head and waved her off, “Don’t worry about it.”

Harley looked at her with curious eyes, tilting her head; she couldn’t resist asking, “Why did you help me?”

Ivy shrugged, then looked past Harley, her eyes falling into deep, focused thought; she couldn’t avoid ranting. “What they did to you… it was _inexcusable_.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked back at Harley, “I don’t like people in general, but I really dislike bullshit reasons for locking people up in that shit-hole. You were _defending_ yourself, so what if you killed that misogynist! Then your ex signs your intake forms…” Ivy scoffed and shook her head in disgust. “And after all that, they torture you with ECT.”

She continued, snickering amiably, “I guess I have a soft spot for women who are treated like research projects, especially by their male coworkers…” Ivy let out a frustrated sigh, feeling slightly embarrassed at getting so irate. Her flushed cheeks were highly noticeable on her pale green skin tone.

Ivy quickly changed the subject when she noticed Harley’s inquisitive eyes; it seemed like she wanted to hear more about her life, but Ivy didn’t have the energy to oblige her right now — plus it was a long story.

“Anyway, we’ll go to my place in the city tonight; I have TV there, so we can keep up with the news. Bats will be more concerned about my escape, but once he finds out who you are, he won’t have to wait for a search warrant to get into your apartment. He’ll probably look for us there first.” Noticing the worried look on Harley’s face, she added, “But he has no clue where any of my places are, so we’re good.”

She smirked, “I wonder if he’d have anything to say about those doctors imprisoning one of their own…” Her brow rose as she stated earnestly, nodding her head at Harley, “But will he care, is the ultimate question — or just dump you back there all trussed-up like me, then disappear?” She punctuated her question by flapping her hand in the air.

Ivy didn’t realize how much she needed to get off her chest; it felt wonderful having someone to commiserate with about Arkham. Though she felt guilty for being glad Harley went through something horrible they could bond over…

Harley snorted derisively — the reality of Batman taking an interest in her was so… abnormal (even if it was by proxy). How the hell did she get to this point in only a few weeks? Hiding out with a famous ‘villain’, needing to break into her own condo, on the run... the cops would probably bring her right back to the asylum, too, if they ever caught her. Harley reiterated to herself that she was NEVER going back there! She‘d blow up Gotham before letting that happen; just thinking about it made her nauseous. (Though technically it _was_ a contributing factor with uncovering her true self, but she could ponder over that philosophical conundrum later.)

Sympathetically changing the subject after sensing Harley’s rising angst, Ivy inquired, “Did Jade say she talked to your brother? Do you need to call him?”

Harley snapped out of her thoughts and nodded vigorously. “He’s probably worried sick, even with Jade giving him updates... do you have a burner I can use?” She felt so awkward asking for an untraceable phone just to call a family member. Again, this was her life now apparently, so she better get used to it.

“I have a few at my other place. We’ll have to ditch your current phone, though… I know from experience, that Bats can trace that shit within a block.” Ivy shook her head disparagingly.

Harley’s brow furrowed — it was rumored that Batman had some amazing tech, but tracing someone’s phone to within a one-block radius, that sounded… illegal? She was definitely going to ask Ivy more about his morally suspect ‘toys’ over the next few days, especially if she might experience them first-hand.

Did escaping Arkham make Harley officially a criminal, though? Being a ‘known associate’ of Ivy now, would Batman keep her on his radar permanently? She had broken out of a medical facility where there was a stack of paperwork on her mental status, plus detailed reports about how she killed Gabe, so _technically_ she was a murderer. And she did attack all those guards and orderlies...

Her breakout probably wouldn’t be covered-up, either, since she was considered a ‘dangerous and volatile’ person (on paper, at least).

Ivy took another sip of her OJ, letting Harley get lost in thought about her current situation. She didn’t want to make her even more anxious, but she also didn’t want to lie to her; Ivy looked at Harley sorrowfully. “So, there’s a good chance you won’t be able to withdraw anything from your bank account… the cops will flag it at some point and your picture might be all over the news soon. But if you want, we could do something... felonious… to get money.” She chuckled at Harley’s bemused (but optimistic) expression. “Depending on what your life plans are going forward, of course,” Ivy wrinkled her nose playfully.

Harley mused over her offer; if she had known all that money she frugally saved over the years would be untouchable, she would have treated herself a lot more. Now possibly needing a new job or career, and money in general, plus a home… it was too much to deal with. She decided to just focus on one thing at a time; getting some cash to live on sounded like a great idea.

Feeling overwhelmed, all Harley could think of to say was “kay” with a goofy grin.

Ivy continued nonchalantly, “My funds could use replenishing, anyway. Hopefully we can set something up for a decent amount that’ll last us awhile. I have an associate I can contact; she’ll find us something suitable.”

Harley shrugged and declared, “Sounds like fun.” She chuckled incredulously to herself… doing something illegal for cash... Harleen would have turned herself in by now, scared shitless about the consequences and her future; but Dr. Quinzel was gone — Harley was going to dive in headfirst and enjoy the ride!

*

The girls ended up talking the rest of the afternoon while revitalizing Ivy’s plants around the house. Turns out, they had a lot in common; they both worked their asses off for a stable, successful career, only to have it ripped away from them dramatically, forcing them to adapt to their new situation in extreme ways.

Ivy knew exactly how Harley was feeling right now… lost in limbo, wondering what her future would look like, and feeling that nagging instability. Unlike Harley though, Ivy had no one to support her through this period, so she felt it necessary to help out.

*

That evening after dinner, they drove into the city using Ivy’s non-descript car (since Harley’s might now be listed in the cops’ database). She ditched her phone and SIM-card separately on the way to Ivy’s place, which was a penthouse in one of Gotham’s experimental ‘go green’ construction projects.

Ivy said she had used her pheromone ability on the owner (a ‘smug, rich asshole’, she called him) to sign it over. She also paid the doorman well to ignore who she was, and he was more than happy to oblige. (Cash was always an easier, long-term incentive.)

They turned on the TV immediately after they arrived; surprisingly, the evening news had zero information about their escape — seems like the doctors were keeping it quiet for the time being, but it was only a matter of time before the media got wind.

*

Harley waited until after she got settled to call Frost, assuming it was going to be a _long_ conversation. While she was admiring the view of Gotham River at night, from the guestroom, she told him everything that happened since Ben ditched her — Frost was beyond livid.

After he hadn’t heard from Harley that weekend, he called the asylum to check in and make sure she was doing okay. (Any other normal weekend he wouldn’t have worried, but a life-shifting event that big, he knew his sis would have at least texted him.) However, the staff kept telling him she ‘wasn’t available’ after they kept him on hold forever.

The next day, he had actually gone there to see her in person, but the ‘unavailable’ or ‘she’s with a patient’ excuse only made him more suspicious. During his efforts, Jade had made the connection that Frost was Harley’s brother, so she was able to call him to give the few details she had. They agreed to stay in contact and she recommended next steps he could take.

Not wanting to compromise Jade’s job, Frost threatened the admin nurse about reporting his sister as a missing person to his cop buddies. Only then did they finally let him talk to Dr. Strange — apparently he didn’t want law enforcement hanging around the facility. Frost was shown Harleen’s admission forms but his arguments of needing family member approval were shut down, even after he threatened to get a lawyer involved.

By the time he started to obtain the necessary legal paperwork for countering her imprisonment, Jade called him with the good news…

They both wondered, with all the apparent secrets the doctors at Arkham were hiding, if Gabe’s death would be publicly announced. Could they hide it from his wife, or let her believe he just disappeared? Anyone doing an autopsy on his body would immediately see the bite mark on his neck, which would get filed as a homicide, then lead to a full investigation (plus there were post-mortem witnesses). They would just have to wait and find out once it hit the news; would they peg Dr. Quinzel as a murderer or just mentally unstable?

The siblings ended up talking for over an hour; Frost seemed genuinely pleased when Harley told him she was going to live freely now, with no interest in hiding under societal constructs.

Living in the moment was her goal, especially since you could get locked up in an asylum unexpectedly.

She hesitated about telling him her and Ivy’s plans to get money, fearing what his reaction would be as a former cop, but he sounded relieved. All he said was ‘good for you’ and that ‘Gotham owed her big time’. Harley hoped she could include him in her future endeavors at some point, since he seemed so at ease with her new lifestyle choices…

Even though they wanted to see each other in person, just to let reality sink in that she was truly free from the asylum, they both understood having to maintain their distance for a bit (since he’d be the first one the police would contact once her escape was reported). It was better he have plausible deniability of not having seen her prior to admission.

Before hanging up, Harley asked if Frost could go to her apartment and grab her guns and some other stuff before the cops got wind of the situation. He volunteered to go right away, but joked that he wasn’t going to rifle through her ‘girlie’ drawers, she’d just have to buy new underwear and whatnot.

They ended their call deciding to check in the next day. She was exhausted reliving her ordeal verbally, but did feel like more weight was lifted off her psyche (especially having his support).

There were still no media updates that evening, even regarding just Ivy’s escape. Harley updated her on her conversation with Frost, and that he was going to deal with her belongings and keep them in the loop. Ivy seemed relieved that her brother was ok with her new life (and that his sister was now friends with the ‘notorious’ Poison Ivy).

Before they both headed off to bed, Ivy offered to try some pheromone ‘therapy’ (as they were calling it) on Harley, to potentially help with sleeping. Harley wasn’t sure what to expect, but all Ivy did was gently run her thumb over the underside of Harley’s wrist a few times. She noticed Ivy’s skin tone on her hand seemed to shift to a warmer shade for a few moments, but Harley had no visible changes to her complexion.

“That’s it?” Harley asked, perplexed.

Ivy smiled softly, “That’s it… but honestly, I’m not sure if it’ll help. It’s just a theory I have… basically it’s the equivalent of balancing your hormone levels, like birth control, but whether it affects your stress or nightmares… it’ll be fascinating to find out.”

Harley nodded, “I’m sure I’ll have plenty more PTSD nights, enough to test on for a lifetime...” She wondered if Ivy had to deal with any undue stress after her first stint in Arkham; Ivy seemed so serene most of the time.

Both of them having a doctorate in different scientific fields was another great bonding item — they had _plenty_ to talk about with that topic. Harley was surprised when Ivy had asked if she could do some analysis on her blood once they got money and more settled. Apparently Ivy was just as curious about her biological condition as everyone else, but whereas Ivy’s expertise was focused on botany, Harley had more chemistry knowledge.

Ivy knew the _how_ of her pheromone and flora control, just not the _why_. She figured getting her blood analyzed would provide some fascinating answers… and perhaps help her develop or strengthen her abilities more.

She still rolled her eyes about the doctors and psychologists at Arkham trying to experiment on her; honestly, if they had just _asked_ her, she would have been amenable to the poking and prodding. But without her permission, their lives were forfeit.

***

Harley woke the next morning to a text from Frost’s burner.

“Cops called looking for both of you. They’re unsure if Ivy kidnapped you, lots of speculation. News will report at 5 prolly. Paper trail of me trying to get you out, so said I didn’t know why you got admitted. Said they did it without my permission. Asylum looks shady now!”

‘Good’, Harley thought smugly. Arkham deserves to be exposed for whatever the hell else was going on there behind closed doors.

Slowly getting out of bed, and feeling quite rested (hoping the ‘therapy’ worked), Harley cleaned up and went out to the living room to update Ivy.

***

As Frost predicted, the 5pm news had finally reported on the girls’ escape — the conjecture was highly entertaining!

The media stated that Ivy had used her powers on Dr. Quinzel from the beginning, to ultimately help her escape, but accidentally “drove her crazy” instead — causing the doctor to kill a coworker and become a patient of the asylum prior to their breakout.

They labeled Dr. Harleen Quinzel as a ‘deeply disturbed and violent’ person who attacked Arkham staff whenever she got the chance and killed a colleague who had been considered a friend. (Gabe assaulting her wasn’t even mentioned, of course.)

Then the news elaborated on how Dr. Quinzel was such a "beautiful, upstanding citizen that had unfortunately snapped because of Poison Ivy’s influence." Unnamed staff had supposedly told reporters that Dr. Quinzel was the only one Ivy would talk to and cooperate with, so they dramatized it as much as possible, speculating if the women were in love, or if Ivy brainwashed her, or if she had Stockholm Syndrome.

Harley knew the media always exaggerated facts to sensationalize stories, but after experiencing it firsthand, she was completely shocked — nearly _all_ of their information was sensationalized and not fact-checked whatsoever. Ivy getting along with only Dr. Quinzel was true, but their tangent about why completely mitigated that fact.

When the news switched stories to mob-related blather, the girls talked at length about how the media portrayed Ivy. Harley was again baffled by the abundant details they made up — turning Ivy into a ‘crazy super villain’ who would harm anyone who got in her way with her ‘frightening meta-human powers’.

Ivy didn’t care for people very much, but hadn’t ever killed everyone in her path as collateral damage. She was much more focused than that and resented their assumptions; it trivialized her personality and activist passions — and increased her disdain for humans tenfold.

To sum up, Gotham had officially declared Dr. Harleen Quinzel an ‘escaped mental patient’ — saying she was diagnosed with I.E. Disorder, extremely dangerous, and needed to be back in Arkham immediately (which would officially put her on Batman’s radar).

‘Of course’, she thought dryly.

Harleen Quinzel built her life the way she was trained to from the start, conforming to societal standards that were littered with superfluous instability — it all led up to imprisonment, torture and resentment. In one media report, a handful of people had successfully burned down the life she had spent years of time, money and energy building; all of it was erased with archaic, infantile labels.

Well, if that’s how they wanted to play the game, Harley Quinn might have to show Gotham just how 'dangerous' she could be…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter includes both Jack and Bruce p.o.v. sections, plus Harley's first dress up outfit... update likely on 11/14! Sorry it's taking so long, work is kickin' my butt, plus I want to ensure Chapter 5 is golden!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, work got crazy, then I decided to extend/re-write a few parts, but I think they're much better now.

Ivy eventually connected with the acquaintance she mentioned, to recommend an ‘easy but fruitful’ heist. Selina suggested they hit a specific jewelry store a couple miles from Ivy’s penthouse; she knew it well and was able to give them all the surveillance and alarm specs, store layout, and what to ignore that wasn’t worth selling (or would be too high-profile to hock).

They asked if Selina wanted to join them, but she haughtily declined; at this point in her career, she only went for the rare, challenging items. However, she gladly offered to sell the lot for them, since she had a network of buyers that were more than happy to purchase that type of loot.

After a few days of planning and visiting the store once to get an inside view, Harley and Ivy were finally ready to “do crime” (as Harley cheerily put it). Since this was her first official criminal experience, Harley insisted on dressing up — if she was going to be plastered all over the news via the surveillance camera footage, she was going to look magnificent!

***

The evening of their felonious adventure, Ivy was getting a bit impatient with Harley taking her time to get dressed. She had no interest in garnering any more media attention, so she wore comfy jeans, sneakers and a dark-green fitted tee; her waist-length red hair was pulled back into a low braided bun for safekeeping.

Ivy sighed and checked the time on her phone. “Harleyyyy, let’s gooooo!” she dramatically cajoled (but with a sliver of humor).

Harley giggled happily from the bathroom, then skipped out and stopped in front of Ivy, striking a ‘super-hero’ pose with hands on her hips, head held high. “How do I look, Red??”

She was wearing a shiny sleeveless black turtleneck corset that accentuated her hourglass figure; it had a large, diamond-shaped keyhole opening on her sternum (showing a hint of cleavage) and two large red diamonds on both sides of her stomach. For bottoms, she wore red vinyl shorts with a thick black belt (that was more for decoration, not function), along with black fishnet tights. On her feet, she chose practical black ‘combat’ boots with low heels.

Her arms were sheathed in red fingerless gloves that stopped just below her elbows, decorated with tiny black diamond clusters. The ensemble was topped off with her light blond hair split into pigtails, each containing a black and red ribbon respectively.

Since the public saw Dr. Quinzel on the news (via an old employee badge photo) as demure and soft, Harley decided to go the opposite route with blood-red lipstick and a thin black mask around her eyes. She debated awhile about donning a mask… for those that would make a connection between Harley and Harleen (via the news and Ivy’s presence), the mask would help them see someone new and distinct. This way, she could ingrain her new name and persona for the masses that was free from prior influence (with the added benefit of being able to walk around in public, for the most part).

Ivy snickered at how excited Harley was… she seemed genuinely happy, getting ready for a simple robbery. Ivy had done so many illegal things by now, she was completely indifferent about this job; there wasn’t much of an adrenaline rush present anymore, unfortunately, unless it was something environmental-based.

“You look spectacular,” Ivy drawled with a truthful smirk. “Do you still have that baton from Arkham?”

Harley nodded excitedly, then reached around behind her back and seemingly pulled the baton out of nowhere. She extended it with a quick snap of her arm and held it up high theatrically.

Ivy chortled and lifted an eyebrow, “Where the hell were you hiding that?”

Harley wrinkled her nose at Ivy’s assumption that it was hidden somewhere very uncomfortable; she retracted the baton, turned around, then slipped it back into the belt on her shorts (wiggling her rear for levity).

“I think we’re ready,” Ivy declared, smiling and shaking her head with amusement. She had to admit, Harley’s excitement was pleasantly affecting her own enthusiasm.

***

The following day, Jack Napier stood in front of his closet wearing only black slacks, staring past his hanging shirts, lost in thought, with his arms crossed over his chest and eyes set in a gentle glare.

Lately he had been feeling unbearably bored… no, not bored — _uninspired_ was the more accurate term.

At first, working as an enforcer for the mob had been challenging and fun, and apparently he excelled at it. But like any job after so many years, it grew stale once you experienced the politics and inner workings. It paid well, of course, and once the bosses figured out he was multifaceted, the demand for his services increased greatly. He was efficient and didn’t complain, which was why Carmine Falcone eventually requested his talents exclusively.

If you had the misfortune of growing up in Gotham’s woefully underfunded foster care system (himself being shoved into it at nine years old), once you aged out, you had two choices: live on the street and try to survive (usually in awful ways), or work for the mob. They always tried to recruit you early on, as well, to establish loyalty; but really it boiled down to ownership — they continually reminded you that you owed them for them getting such a huge opportunity, and didn’t end up homeless and destitute.

Jack wasn’t susceptible to their diatribe, because he didn’t fear any of those cretins; he could disappear if he really wanted to, without repercussion. But it was a job he mostly enjoyed… until recently — the repetition of it was tedious and working for an antiquated moron like Falcone was beyond irritating.

However, he did maintain a reluctant friendship with Falcone’s youngest son, Matt. He was a spoiled brat, having grown up wanting for nothing; but being on good terms with the boss’s kid would benefit him in the future — playing the cumulative long game always paid off.

Sighing loudly and running a hand through his hair, he finally just grabbed a dress shirt at random; normally, he was meticulous about what he wore, but right now he couldn’t care less. As he walked into the living room buttoning up the lackluster gray top, something on the news caught his attention. He leaned against the couch arm and grabbed the remote to turn up the volume. (Watching the news wasn’t something he usually did; listening as background noise was sufficient enough to keep tabs on Gotham’s latest drama.)

It took a lot to grasp his attention these days, but right now, he was captivated with a story regarding a seemingly routine jewelry heist. News anchor, Mike Engel, was talking about two women that had robbed the store overnight (while trying to hide his amusement).

_“At 2am this morning, ‘Lynn Jewelers’, located on the north side of Michigan Avenue in the Diamond District, was robbed of a small quantity of their inventory by two female thieves. The incident seemed routine until police arrived after receiving an anonymous tip. Once officers entered the premises, they found the night security guard duct-taped to a chair, unharmed, but wearing an estimated 15 million dollars worth of jewelry.”_

Jack’s eyes widened and he snickered loudly when they showed footage of the security guard from the surveillance video — he was _covered_ in jewels! Each one of his fingers was enveloped with rings, countless necklaces were draped around his neck (the small delicate ones were hanging from his ears), and a variety of tiaras were balancing precariously on his hairless head. Topping off the sparkly captive’s wardrobe, was a decorative gold rose sticking out of his shirt pocket.

_“The store’s owner stated that the thieves ignored the rare and most expensive pieces, presumably because they knew those items could be easily traced. One of the robbers appears to be the notorious Poison Ivy, formerly Dr. Pamela Isley, who has escaped twice from Arkham Asylum. Her accomplice is purported to be Dr. Harleen Quinzel, who assisted in Ivy’s recent escape, and was rumored to be a patient at the Asylum after having worked there as a medical doctor. Research shows that Poison Ivy has never partnered with anyone else during her criminal activities; though now, it appears both former doctors seem to have established an alliance.”_

As the news played the store’s surveillance video, Jack felt a pleasant, warm twinge in his stomach. While Ivy seemed disinterested in the excursion, her colleague was completely opposite — she was skipping around the store gleefully, laughing while she smashed glass cases with a baton, then selectively added pieces to the guard (tossing valuable jewelry over her shoulder like rubbish if it didn’t pair well on her human canvas).

Once Ivy signaled that she had grabbed the inventory they needed, Jack’s brows raised as he watched the masked doctor pull out lipstick from her cleavage and wrote on the only intact glass counter left — “XOXO, Harley Quinn”. The last part of the video footage showed Harley looking up at the camera, smiling and waving, then blowing a kiss to the lens and skipping out the front door.

Jack didn’t quite know what to think… his mind seemed to empty of all coherent thought. He felt _mesmerized_ after seeing Harley smile and skip off. There was something about her that was unique… and magnetically fascinating.

He furrowed his brow when he felt his cheeks flush; he didn’t quite understand why he was reacting this way to her antics. Was it just her bearing that was amusing? Or the way she was sensationally dressed for such a routine job? Before he could ponder further, Engel’s voice brought him back into focus.

_“Sources at the security company say the women disabled the alarm system, allowing them sufficient time to vandalize the store and restrain the guard before law enforcement was alerted to an issue.”_

Only one thief in Gotham that Jack knew of could have given them that alarm bypass information (considering the complex security systems most jewelry stores in this city had, especially after frequent robberies). But he had no way to contact her… at least not directly. If you put word out that you were looking for Catwoman, she’d find you at _her_ leisure, on her own time.

As the news started to elaborate on Ivy and Harleen’s recent Arkham escape, Jack snatched his phone off the kitchen counter. He chuckled incredulously at himself for wanting to watch the surveillance video again, but his fingers kept typing reflexively. While he stared intently at the footage, a delighted smile spread across his face — goddamn, she was cute! Her mannerisms and personality were intriguing; she just seemed so free and deliciously theatrical…

He shook his head gently in disbelief that he was so enthralled by her (after realizing he had inadvertently tucked his bottom lip between his teeth).

After watching the video a second time (the excuse he told himself was the auto-replay setting was turned on), he perused the rest of the article. He wasn’t sure how accurate it was, with the media being known to exaggerate, but he felt compelled to find out more about Harley... how does a law-abiding citizen go from a normal life to a criminal practically overnight? And from what little he heard about the plant chick’s past activities, she had some unusual abilities, but has never been known to ‘drive someone crazy’ as the article stated.

But why the hell did he care in the first place? He had never felt drawn to find out anyone’s history regardless of their crimes... was this just a timely excuse to distract from his acknowledged boredom? He should be irritated by this new preoccupation, but he was feeling a strange mixture of excitement and intrigue.

Without really being aware of what he was doing, he was back at his closet changing from his gray shirt into a dark red one with subtle, iridescent black stripes. Falcone requested he visit his ridiculously exorbitant penthouse for another customary job assignment; either money needed to be collected, or someone needed a verbal or physical threat, or a bullet to the head for mundane territorial reasons... the usual.

Whatever it was, hopefully it’d give him a chance to stop by the Iceberg Lounge and chat with Penguin, to see if he could put feelers out for information on Harley that was untainted by the media. Was that stalker-ish of him, having a third party pry into her life, though? Oswald’s people were very discreet… and it wasn’t like he was going to follow her around or sit outside her house...

Nope, he wasn’t stalking, just inquiring… for research purposes.

Once he finished dressing, he grabbed a crisp Joker playing card off his dresser and flipped it deftly though his fingers as he headed back into the living room. He had been toying with an idea lately… of creating a name for himself. Not necessarily for the limelight, but just to see how the public would react and shake things up a bit… give Gotham something new to discuss.

It seemed like there were more criminals in this city creating monikers for themselves, and he found he was starting to crave a similar legacy. Jack’s nickname growing up was ‘wildcard’; his mother had coined that term for him when he was a kid, since he always did the unexpected and loved to stir up chaos. Often this personality trait got him into trouble; people just didn’t understand his brand of humor, unfortunately.

He’d try to keep himself in check, though, otherwise his mom was forced to leave work and pick him up from school after being suspended (or from the police station those few times). “Don’t get caught,” she’d always remind him affectionately, after retrieving him from his various transgressions. And he’d give her his usual apology, then rant about people not having a sense of humor or getting the joke.

But after she died, and he was forced to endure all those shitty foster homes, he unstoppered that cork permanently. He also made _damn_ sure the ‘wildcard’ nickname stuck (like he was subconsciously keeping the memory of his mom alive). His friends would say it with affection, humor and reverence; his hateful elders or enemies spat it at him with disdain.

And now with this new, fun Harley Quinn goddess showing up… the energy around him shifted as he started to feel anticipation again — of what, he had no idea, but he couldn’t wait to find out!

However, he still had a day job for the time being… but then right after that, he’d visit his confidante for a quick chat. After turning off the TV, he strapped on his shoulder holsters, slipped a knife and Joker card into his jacket, then left.

*

At the same time downtown, in Bruce Wayne’s opulent penthouse, he and Alfred had paused their conversation to watch the news story about Harley and Ivy.

“She’s certainly very animated,” Alfred stated stoically as he watched the footage of Harley smashing glass counters; his voice contained a hint of amusement (that only Bruce would notice).

Bruce made a reluctantly agreeable ‘hmm’ sound, then sighed loudly — this would make the second time Ivy had escaped from Arkham. It was difficult keeping criminals contained in that facility when their meta-human abilities were abundant. He never pegged Ivy as a jewelry heist type of lawbreaker though; he wondered if this new partner of hers brought on that influence. A routine smash-n-grab robbery is one thing, but making a spectacle of it, and not bothering to hide their identities — that was a _huge_ red flag.

He felt a pang of foreboding in his stomach; granted, no one got hurt or died, but it was only a matter of time (new criminals like that always escalated). He’d need to keep an eye on both women and find out more about Dr. Quinzel’s background. If the news was factual about her activities at Arkham, she absolutely needed help or get re-admitted soon, so she could get proper care before getting worse. His intuition told him she’d be back in the spotlight again soon, so he’d have to get her back to the asylum before she sank further into Gotham’s criminal realm.

Alfred chimed in again after he watched Harley blow a kiss to the camera, “Isn’t that the jewelry store that Ms. Kyle has burglarized numerous times?”

Bruce couldn’t help his cheeks flushing just a tad at the mention of Selina’s name; getting involved with the unrepentant thief went against everything he stood for as Batman, but he was impulsively drawn to her. It wasn’t like they had an official relationship, though, since they could never publicize their activities. Neither of them needed the media digging into their lives, and it’d be inevitable, being as famous as Bruce was.

“It seems like they knew the alarm codes, or how to bypass them, especially if the police didn’t show up right away,” Bruce offered with concern. “I could contact Selina…” he trailed off, but quickly continued after seeing Alfred’s teeny tiny smirk. “…to see if she knows anything about the robbery… or Dr. Quinzel’s situation.” He finished his sentence with a short, exasperated sigh at his rambling.

Alfred smiled professionally and nodded in agreement, “I think that would be wise, Sir.” He nonchalantly added, “Might I suggest that she’d be more open to conversing over dinner?”

Bruce always felt like a teenager with a crush when Alfred would employ his polite version of goading, to get him to spend time with her. “Yes, I suppose she would,” he stated with a conceding glare at his butler.

He’d have to contact her tomorrow, though, since he had a busy night ahead of him; there were a lot of rumors going around regarding increased mob activity in the Narrows. Apparently the Odessa gang had shipments of assault rifles being imported at the docks that he’d need to investigate. Weapons being stockpiled in large quantities usually meant territory takeovers or mob wars, both of which always resulted in civilian casualties.

Alfred asked a question he already knew the answer to, “Shall I request the standard paperwork from Dr. Arkham regarding Harleen Quinzel’s work history and admission?”

“Yes, let’s do the proper channels first; if that doesn’t prove useful, we’ll have to go with the direct approach for a more thorough background check.” Bruce would most likely need to have a private conversation with the Arkham psychiatrists to find out exactly what happened with the blond doctor. The more information he had on her, the more likely he’d be able to convince her to go back. He’d need to find out if she had any local family members, as well, that might be open to providing him support.

Once the news story switched, they returned to their previous conversation about Lucius’s latest prototype adjustments to the suit. Currently it was a bit difficult to move fluidly in — more flexibility would result in faster maneuvers to immobilize lawbreakers until the cops showed up. It would forever be a work-in-progress, but necessary for him to keep Gotham from completely drowning in crime.

***

The jewelry store heist had gone perfectly! Ivy just smiled and shook her head at Harley’s antics — dressing up the guard, smashing all the cases, and signing her name… if Harley wanted to develop her new persona for Gotham and get noticed, that was her prerogative; Ivy would support her however she could. She was admittedly enjoying Harley’s evolution away from Dr. Quinzel and was very curious to see what path she’d take in the future with her new lifestyle.

The girls had met with Selina the day after the heist to hand off the loot; luckily they didn’t have to wait long for their payout. Harley found that Selina seemed a bit guarded with her (understandably so, being a newbie to the criminal world), but she was pleasant enough to do business with. And besides, any new contacts Harley could make going forward would be a bonus.

***

Over the next couple days while maintaining a low profile, lounging at Ivy’s penthouse, Frost and Harley dove into some research tasks. (Ivy busied herself with some other projects, figuring the siblings needed some catch-up time alone.)

The robbery (and juvenile destruction) provided an outlet for Harley’s pent-up energy, but she was still feeling restless in her desire for some revenge — particularly on a couple select employees from Arkham.

Frost ran a standard, legal background check on Dr. Crane, at Harley’s insistence that he die first. She wasn’t sure how her brother would react to her intentions to murder people… but he surprised her by shrugging and saying ‘they’re assholes’.

Turns out, the address Crane had on file at Arkham was phony, leading to a defunct office building; his mail went to a P.O. Box, which only seemed to be used for bills and miscellaneous forms.

Harley was bemused… the guy clearly had more secrets than it seemed. With reluctance, she told Frost they could deal with him later; she didn’t want to waste any more time trying to dig him up (short of stalking him at the Arkham parking lot, but there was no way she was going anywhere near that place ever again). Frost could do more in-depth research later, since Harley’s patience was wearing thin from their abrupt lack of results.

Luckily, Dr. Gabe’s lookout guard, Stan, was ridiculously easy to track down — he lived alone in a shitty neighborhood, with no family or pets. Frost asked Harley what she had planned for him once she confronted the coward; after some brief introspection, her response was that he needed to learn a ‘fatal lesson’ for her maltreatment.

He seemed unfazed by her decision, which she was grateful for (but if she was being honest with herself, Harley wasn’t sure how she’d feel afterwards). The only person she had ever killed was Gabe, but that was in self-defense. However, the desire for a smidgeon of closure and revenge was outweighing her potential impending guilt.

Frost did insist that he was going to go with her and basically be her backup. Harley figured it was a remnant habit from being a former cop, always used to having a partner nearby (plus wanting to protect his sister in general). Either way, she was delighted he wanted to join her!

Harley decided to bring her Beretta and a silencer, to not draw any unwanted attention (though she guessed gunshots in Stan’s neighborhood would be ignored). She wore basic clothing, consisting of jeans and a large hoodie (to blend in and hide her shoulder holster); Frost wore a casual suit for their ruse to gain entry to Stan’s home.

Harley tried not to psychoanalyze herself on the drive over, but she couldn’t help it. Killing Gabe was self-defense — she acted on impulse with no premeditation. But driving to someone’s house to purposefully execute them… that was murder, plain and simple. And could she even do it? Granted, it wasn’t like she was going to torture the guy… it’d be a quick, painless death for him — way more than he deserved. But was she bringing only her gun as a weapon so she could disassociate? What would psychologists or society label her if they knew what she was about to do? Did this make her a sociopath? Did she even care???

Nope! She didn’t care what anyone thought of her now, as she recalled learning about ‘cognitive dissonance’ in her psych classes… Harley was officially giving up ‘good’ and ‘evil’ labels for behaviorism — end of story.

With a sigh, she tried to distract herself by reloading her magazine and checking the chamber a few times.

Frost noticed Harley was silent (but fidgety) on the way to Stan’s, but he left her to her inner turmoil. He could only imagine what was going through her head… this would be her first official kill besides self-defense. As a former cop, he was no stranger to murder (nor was he himself a virgin in that area), but his sister was new to this… what does a sibling say to in this situation? ‘Good luck with your first murder, Sis’?

He’d be sure to offer her support afterward, no matter what she decided to do with this rapist they were going to visit — if she ended up changing her mind about eliminating him, then that was her choice. He was glad she asked him to drive, though, since her adrenaline was visibly spiking already.

*

Once they climbed the stairs in Stan’s shabby apartment complex, Frost stood at the door and waited for Harley to take up her hidden position right next to him. After scoping out the building once, and not seeing much activity from the neighbors, he looked at her and raised an eyebrow, silently asking if she was ready. She unzipped her hoodie and withdrew her Beretta, holding it down at her side between her body and the wall.

Frost lightly knocked on the door and donned a professional smile; they heard Stan turn his TV down and clamber over to the doorway. As they figured, he looked through the peephole first and spoke through the door, “Whaddya want?”

Frost spoke gently, “I’m looking for Stanly Griggs, I have a settlement check here I’m supposed to deliver; is that you, sir? All I require is your signature and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Tempted and curious by receiving potential free money, Stan opened the door without the chain-guard attached. ‘Good’, Harley thought, they wouldn’t need to make any noise getting in.

When the door opened, Frost took a step back, which was Harley’s signal that their revenge mission was a go. She quickly sidestepped in front of Frost and lifted her gun to Stan’s forehead. Grabbing a fistful of his shirt in her other hand, she forced him back into his apartment before he could comprehend what was happening (though his eyes were bulging in shock).

Frost quickly followed them inside and shut the door quietly, while Harley forced Stan into his living room. Finally, his brain seemed to have caught up with the situation. “Wha… what the fuck!” he blubbered, then instinctively put his hands up in surrender.

“SIT DOWN,” Harley snapped, then pushed him towards his filthy snot-green couch, gesturing with her gun.

Frost glanced around the apartment, making sure Stan didn’t have any visible weapons on hand, and taking stock of the layout. He wrinkled his noise in disgust at the state of his home; it looked like a frat house after a weekend party… his sis was doing the world a favor, as far as he was concerned. Frost was glad he came with, too. Everyone needs a partner to watch their back, especially when they have a one-track mind that’s profoundly focused on a specific goal. But Harls seemed to be in her element now, he positively mused.

Once Harley had Stan seated on the couch, she lowered her weapon a tad, pointing it at his chest. She wrinkled her nose, then smiled condescendingly at him. “Heyyyy, Stanly! Long time no see!”

Stan just stared at Harley; it was clear his brain was still shutting down, but he managed to sputter out a few more words. “Doc… doctor… Quinzel?”

“Not anymore, but close enough,” Harley replied nonchalantly. “I just have a few questions for you, if you have a minute to converse.” She glanced around the grimy apartment and raised an eyebrow, pursing her mouth in disgust. “I’m guessing you’re not expecting company tonight?”

Stan shook his head while the reality of the situation seemed to finally be sinking in.

“Good,” Harley stated. “I was gonna sit down so we could have a friendly chitchat…” she pointedly looked around the living room, “…but eww.” She gestured with her non-gun hand, as if to shoo away the dirt.

Suddenly, Stan blurted out, “It wasn’t my idea!!!”

Harley’s eyes widened in surprise that he even spoke up, then she tilted her head and smirked. Toying with him was going to be so much fun! She started to regret not deciding to kidnap him and bring him somewhere so they could have more time… oh well.

She glared at him with a wicked gleam in her eyes. “ _What_ wasn’t your idea?” Whatever he said didn’t matter, he was fucked either way, but she was too curious what he’d say in this situation. Human behavior was still fascinating to her, even though she was no longer studying psychiatry.

Stan stuttered, trying to think of the least volatile thing he could say. “Um… uh, the um… basement… thing.”

Harley sighed heavily, then snickered, “You can’t even say it, you fucking coward.” She shook her head in dismay; he was just too pathetic. She looked at Frost standing behind the couch a few feet away, maintaining his bodyguard composure.

He rolled his eyes and shook his head subtly; he knew Stan would never admit out loud what he was going to do to his sister in that storage room. Hopefully Harls was just going to toy with him for a few minutes, then they could go; he was already eager to leave this disgusting rat’s nest. Frost could see her patience was waning, luckily.

Harley emulated Frost’s eye roll, agreeing with him silently, then looked back at Stan. He was sweating profusely by now, his hands shaking with the effort of holding them up. Only because the movement was starting to visually irritate her, she told him to put his hands down, to which he obliged.

Stan turned his head a bit and glanced back at Frost warily, then his eyes alternated between looking at Harley’s face and the gun in her hand. She lowered her weapon to her side, giving him a false sense of security.

“So… is that like, your version of an apology?” she asked rhetorically.

After Stan nodded his head, she scoffed incredibly loud. “Okayyyy,” she drawled. This was already boring her and his place reeked. Plus, no matter what she asked him, he would just parrot back to her what he thought she’d want him to say. There’d be no insightful answers from this dolt… the experiment was over.

“I just have one question for you and then we’ll leave,” she stated while gesturing her hand between herself and Frost. She saw Frost shift, almost imperceptibly, getting ready for a swift, silent exit (or action incase something went wrong).

Stan just stared at her, wide-eyed and unblinking. Harley was genuinely curious how he’d answer her final question; she paused a few moments for dramatic effect. “How many other women have you assaulted?” she asked in an eerily sweet way. Harley refused to say the R-word — this was an all-encompassing inquiry.

He flinched at her question; his eyes darted back and forth, trying to decide how to answer without pissing off his captor even more.

Harley noticed his hesitation and softly added, “Just answer the question truthfully and we’ll go.” It was difficult to maintain her serene voice, when she just wanted to spit and scream at him. Even if he didn’t answer with the real number, it didn’t matter — this was just a test to see what choice he’d make. Now he knew what it felt like to be someone’s captive…

Stan seemed to relax a bit after hearing again that they would be leaving if he answered. “Um… I… just…” he faltered involuntarily.

Harley ground her teeth together; her patience was at zero now. “Answer me right now, or I’ll knee-cap you,” she snapped, then pointed her weapon smartly at his knee.

Stan inhaled sharply as he put his hands up again, as if that would stave off her threat. “THREE!” he blurted out.

Harley tried to maintain her stoic face, even though internally, her stomach roiled and her jaw clenched. She glanced at Frost to ground herself and maintain her composure, remembering that they had to be inconspicuous.

A disgruntled sigh left her nose; she stared back at Stan as he slowly lowered his hands again, internally willing them to just go away, as promised.

Harley blinked, then smiled pleasantly at him, relishing in seeing his guard let down just a bit. “That’s all I wanted to know, thanks. We’ll go now,” she said cheerily.

Channeling the weight of injustice women have had to suffer through over countless millennia, she raised her gun back up to his forehead. Harley paused and tilted her head, waiting for Stan to comprehend that they would leave _after_ she killed him. His eyes widened impossibly large as he opened his mouth to protest, but Harley pulled the trigger. A few moments after the silencer made a muffled ‘clank’ noise, Stan’s body slumped sideways onto the couch.

She holstered her weapon and zipped up her hoodie; it was too quick a death for an imbecile like him, but she didn’t want to look at his stupid face any more. As she headed towards the front door, she paused — suddenly (and strangely) she was feeling compelled to ‘sign’ her kill… to signify to whomever found his body, that Harley-fuckin-Quinn was responsible for ridding the world of this shithead. She had to leave something… but what…?

“Hold on…” she told Frost; he watched her curiously as she went into Stan’s kitchen, opening a few drawers quietly. Harley grabbed the sharpest knife she could find, then went back to the couch and hovered over Stan’s lifeless body. She tilted her head in contemplation with a stolid expression on her face, twisting the paring knife in her hand.

After a few moments, Harley squinted her eyes, then made four swift cuts into Stan’s cheek in the shape of a diamond. It was crude, since the blade wasn’t very sharp, but the wound was definitive, nonetheless.

She stabbed the knife into the couch next to his head and walked back towards her brother. “Let’s go, this place smells like ass,” she stated with a giggle, wrinkling her nose and spitting out her tongue.

“Mm hmm,” Frost chuckled in agreement, as they both silently exited Stan’s apartment and left the building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next - Harley sets up a home for herself and Penguin chats with a few visitors.
> 
> 3/1 update: got distracted from this story with my mini ones, check them out! Subscribe if you can, I have two more in mind for the future... anyway, working on editing this one again!
> 
> ❤️🖤💚💜


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